


Honey trap

by Snoozydog



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Charles Augustus Magnussen Being Creepy, Intrigue, Jealous John Watson, M/M, Manipulation, Mind Games, Scheming Sherlock Holmes, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2020-12-02 02:16:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 69,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20967965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snoozydog/pseuds/Snoozydog
Summary: Mycroft has employed Sherlock to help him bring down Charles Augustus Magnussen who's blackmailing business is threatening to do serious harm if left undisturbed. But Mycroft's methods are surprisingly unconventional and involves trying to use his brother as sexual bait to gain access to Magnussen's well-hidden vault of secrets.John is doing his best to be supportive in the beginning on account of the important cause, but soon discovers that he has difficulties coping with what Sherlock is forced to do to fool Magnussen.





	1. Preparations

“Why am I the one who’s going to have to get close to him? I don’t _do_ people, Mycroft, you know that. I abhor them and they certainly can’t abide with me either.”

“Because, brother dear, while your social skills might be sadly lacking, your appearance certainly is not, and combined with your reputation of having a sparkling intellect and with the benefit of acting a part, which I know you excel at, it is the best option we have available.”

“There is only so much I can do to feign interest in other people, this is asking too much.”

John stepped up to his petulant friend and straightened the bow tie that Mycroft had acquired for Sherlock to wear for the evening, while letting his fingers gingerly caress the place where his carotid artery made itself known by pulsating in rapid movements just beneath his very soft skin. If Mycroft hadn’t been so invested in presenting his little brother like the succulent little tart they all knew he sometimes could be made to look like, and if time hadn’t been of such essence, John would have let his tongue travel along that delicious looking throat, nibble at the skin a little, perhaps even mark him with his teeth to create a dark bruise that would shine in stark contrast against the otherwise porcelain-coloured surface.  
As it was now, he had to save all of that for later and make his friend presentable before heading out for the evening to the task that awaited him.

Sherlock was clearly uncomfortable with this arrangement and it wasn’t solely because he was forced to wear formal wear and a bow tie according to the dress code of the event. On account of his upbringing as well as the many years spent at respectable boarding schools, Sherlock was not a stranger to wearing the right attire, however reluctantly. But this was something else and Mycroft wasn’t completely sure where his brother’s nervousness stemmed from.

As far as it went case-wise, it was a pretty straight forward affair. In fact, calling it a case would actually be stretching the truth a little bit, it was more like a ruse, an under-cover operation that would not require much work at all from any of them.  
That suited Mycroft fine, as he wasn’t particularly fond of these kinds of assignments anyway, preferring to be the strategist who stayed behind his desk. Sherlock would definitely be the one to do most of the work tonight. 

The assignment consisted of getting close to someone that had operated in the periphery for many years and until recently had been nothing but an unpleasant presence Mycroft and his colleagues had grown accustomed to accepting but who didn’t pose a true threat to anyone.  
He was a repulsive man but essentially harmless, a few had even pampered to his needs to keep him quiet and earn whatever favours his companionship could offer them. It wasn’t that different to how most businessmen conducted themselves in this time and age where nothing was off limits and every way of reaching your goals were acceptable, however immoral. 

But the situation had changed when the man had recently switched tactics and a few people of influence had suddenly been targeted by him.  
His main tactic was to blackmail his victims with the threat of publishing delicate information about them if they did not perform certain favours that could gain him further influence and power. Sometimes the influence and the power weren’t even what he craved the most. Occasionally he just thrived on seeing others dance to his tune, be at his complete and utter mercy, defencelessly squirming in his hands before he destroyed them just for the fun of it. Him being a true sadist at heart, it was difficult to know how to survive a confrontation with a man that took such pleasure in seeing others suffer, and for every victim he added to the ever-growing list of people he had ruined, he grew even more brazen. 

Allowing a man like Charles Augustus Magnussen to become more influential was something that needed to be stopped before he began targeting the people who truly mattered. Mycroft himself had not yet been affected, but considering the pace at which this man was causing havoc among his colleagues, it was only a matter of time before it happened. 

Not that Mycroft was a man easily targeted. People who had previously tried did not usually live to tell the tale.  
But Magnussen was a different opponent than what Mycroft was used to going up against, and if there ever was a man that had the potential to succeed, it would be Magnussen.  
Mycroft had a few dark secrets and pressure points, even if deeply buried and well-hidden. He would fall hard from grace if faced with the threat of exposure, not to mention the greatest pressure point of all standing right in front of him this very moment, squirming uncomfortably in front of the mirror and surprisingly unwilling to go along with the plan his older brother had come up with. Despite the plan being uncomplicated and almost laughable in its simplicity.

With Mycroft’s decidedly dashing younger brother as bait, they were going to gain access to Magnussen’s private chambers, find the source of all his knowledge and power in the form of a vault he supposedly had in his home, a vault where he kept everything incriminating that he had on other people to use as blackmail against them. And when finding this vault, they were going to destroy it.  
A far as plans went, it couldn’t have been more straightforward.

Magnussen, a known bachelor, infamous for his predilection for young good-looking men, was to be lured into a honey trap that consisted of Sherlock’s magnetic charms, making it easier to gain access to Magnussen’s private rooms and thereby increasing the chance of finding and destroying the vault.  
Mycroft had also suggested that Sherlock could attempt to turn the tables and perhaps try snapping a few photos of Magnussen in a few compromising situations to use as blackmail against the blackmailer himself. But at this suggestion, Sherlock had merely snorted and not made any promises to follow through with it. 

With his handsome appearance as well as his intelligence and the association to Mycroft, Sherlock would pose an irresistible temptation for Magnussen to get his hands on, especially considering the fact that Mycroft Holmes's younger brother was one of those tantalising little secrets that thrived on a reputation made up by interest and curiosity without anyone knowing what the true fascination actually consisted of. 

People had heard of him of course but few had actually met him in person and this temptation alone would prove irresistible for someone like Magnussen. 

That the formidable Mycroft Holmes had a younger brother who was almost as equally brilliant in his own right but completely untameable, looked nothing like a stuffy old bureaucrat but instead worked as some sort of consultant to Scotland Yard, made the rumour mill run wild at the mention of his name.  
Those few who had actually met Sherlock could confirm the reputation of him being exceptionally good-looking but so razor-sharp in tone and manner that he became a difficult piece to swallow. Where Mycroft had learned the art of interacting with a cold smile and a smooth tone of voice, Sherlock cut straight to the core with other people, never caring for neither timing nor good manners. 

As Magnussen was more part of Mycroft’s world than of Sherlock’s, they had never crossed paths and it wasn’t actually clear if the businessman had heard of Holmes the younger as of yet, but Mycroft was certainly someone Magnussen was well aware of and they had met a few times before.

Mycroft Holmes was a person famously difficult to get close to. Fiercely private, opting to work in the shadows rather than in the spotlight, he acted as the puppeteer of those in power, the shadow master that ruled from the side-lines and those who needed to know of his influence did so without having to meet with him. His name alone spoke volumes to those who knew who he was and what he could achieve.  
In a way, the same could be said of Magnussen. Not known to the general public but with his hands in most of the outlets that people’s lives consisted of, controlling a large part of media, from petty gossip to actual news, he was a force to be reckoned with. It was natural that two men of such importance should know of each other, they had done so for years. But for things to change the way it had done lately, was an unwelcome development in Mycroft’s eyes.

When one of his closest colleagues had been targeted by Magnussen a few weeks ago and had opted for suicide instead of facing the humiliation of public exposure, Mycroft knew that whatever fire Magnussen was trying to start, now was the time to smother it.  
So instead of waiting for the next victim to be compromised, he decided that enough was enough and Magnussen had to be stopped before he had the chance of finding something he could use against Mycroft himself.

It had not taken him long to come up with the plan he was now about to launch, and initially Sherlock had seemed at least a little interested in going after a master of blackmail. But when the finer details of the plan had been exposed, Sherlock had grown increasingly reluctant to follow through with it.  
Mycroft wasn’t really sure why that was.  
Sherlock had done far sillier things in his line of work than battering his eyelashes and flirt with someone to achieve what he wanted. Why this was now suddenly a problem was quite baffling.

Sherlock had no true knowledge of Magnussen beyond what Mycroft had told him, and he was not a stranger to acting a part if it suited his motives and yet he showed some reluctance going through with the arrangements of the evening, despite Mycroft’s reassurances that it was going to be an easy task. He secretly wondered if this was all because his brother’s new flatmate.

Since moving in together John Watson and Sherlock Holmes had been more or less inseparable from the very first day.  
As seen by others but at first not acknowledged by themselves, feelings of the more lovelorn variety had soon started to develop between them, first by Doctor Watson, despite vocally claiming that he wasn’t gay and trying to date a whole string of women as if to prove that very point. The pining in the man’s eyes had been quite stomach-churning to observe during those first few weeks before Sherlock caught up with reality and found that he actually harboured some warmer feelings for his flatmate as well and they had embarked on a relationship that felt as foolish as it was fragile, lined with misunderstandings and cautious attempts at reedifying their relationship from friends to lovers when one had been a closet homosexual all of his life and the other had the emotional depths of a paper bag. 

Mycroft had felt misgivings about the whole thing from the very beginning but had decided to let them run towards disaster on their own if they wanted to. But if it was beginning to interfere with how Sherlock performed while working, it would be a difficult pill to swallow.

Brushing his misgivings away about the reason for Sherlock’s reluctance, Mycroft concentrated on the task at hand instead.

“You will do splendidly if you just act the part. You already look marvellous, so on that account alone he will not be able to resist making contact, and if you only tone down your personality a notch, be less…. well, _you_ …it will be alright. Play a little coy, don’t be too obvious and his interest will be piqued.”

Sherlock gave his brother an irritated glare.

“You don’t have to tell me how to do this, I’m not an _amateur_”, he snarled and waived John’s hands away from his throat and his fiddling with the bow tie. But the tone in his voice suggested otherwise. He wasn’t comfortable with this at all. 

“Stop being so fidgety then and prove it,” John said while he reluctantly let his hands be pushed away, ignoring the telling signs of Sherlock’s discomfort. It didn’t sit too well with him either that he was sending his newly acquired lover into the arms of another man, but for the sake of the cause, he was willing to swallow whatever jealous feelings that might plague him. Mycroft had assured him that it was a completely safe arrangement and John preferred this to sending Sherlock into actual danger without him by his side. Although, John had managed to acquire the menial part of playing waiter so he could make sure that nothing happened that wasn’t supposed to happen, because even if Sherlock was to appear as if he was offering sex, there would be no sexual activities between him and Magnussen.

Mycroft had at first not been very pleased with John’s insistence to participate in the operation, even in a non-active role, but he had eventually agreed when Sherlock had proved to be too difficult to handle on his own. 

“I’m not being _fidgety_. I just think it’s an immature method of reaching results. It’s like something out of a teenage novel or a soap on the telly,” Sherlock complained.

“How would you know?” Mycroft raised an inquisitive eyebrow while he met his brother’s eyes in the mirror. “Have you actually even seen a soap on the telly, or read a teenage novel for that matter?”

Sherlock gave a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders, making him look exactly like the target audience of said novels. 

“Their reputation proceeds them. And don’t change the subject. You know this is puerile, Mycroft. Sending your own brother like some femme fatale, or in my case _homme fatal_, to do your bidding, seducing your target to get access to some mysterious vault that no one has actually seen. And then, as if that wasn’t enough, try to pin something on him for you to use as blackmail against _him_ instead of the other way around. You always complain about my vivid imagination, but this overshadows anything I could ever have come up with.”

Mycroft gave his little brother a cold smile that didn’t reach his eyes. 

He didn’t like to be questioned on the decisions he made, least of all from Sherlock, and certainly not in front of other people. But then he let it pass and smoothed out whatever signs of irritation his face presented and opted for a more casual expression. 

" I know this man far better than you do and this is simply the easiest and less dangerous way of achieving what we want. It is, as you say, so impish that he won’t see it coming. So far, I don’t think he even knows that I consider him a threat. We met just the other week and there was nothing but the usual polite cordiality between us. He is otherwise known for expressing his intentions rather directly.”

“I don’t really care how you communicate with each other, one stuffy bore to another, but he's hardly going to display what he truly feels, is he?” Sherlock objected.

“True. But considering that Purcell’s suicide has officially been written off as a cardiac arrest and no move from us has been made towards Magnussen since it happened, he has no reason to suspect that I feel anything beyond my usual politeness for him. We are hardly well-acquainted, we know of each other and meet occasionally, that is all. There is no reason for him to think that anything has changed in that regard.”

Mycroft reached out and pushed an errant curl out of his brother’s forehead.

“Now be a good boy and do as I have asked. If nothing else, it will give you the opportunity to meet a blackmailer and see how spends his time. I would have thought it would pique your curiosity, as you seem to like surrounding yourself with criminals on a regular basis.”

Sherlock met his brother’s eyes with a defiant look.

“And if spending time with a blackmailer includes getting naked with him in his bedroom, that is fine by you as well, I assume?”

There was a glint of irritation in Mycroft’s eyes and Sherlock knew he had hit a sore spot.

“I am sure there is no reason to go that far. But the occasional peck on the cheek is perhaps to be expected and I will try to tolerate it as well as I am able. As I’m sure John will as well.”

Sherlock laughed incredulously. 

“A peck on the cheek? You are deluding yourself, Mycroft. Who settles for that in this day and age? This isn’t the Victorian times anymore, you know. People do more than just get hot and bothered by seeing a naked ankle.”

“As I am well aware, brother dear. But Magnussen is a very cold-tempered man, not inclined to show any obvious displays of affection in public and most likely not when meeting someone for the first time.”

“_Most likely_? That’s a rather loose term, especially coming from someone who prides himself with always being very precise. “

“You’re forgetting that he has to keep in mind that you are _my_ brother, not some cheap trollop for him to subject to any carnal urges, if such feelings were even to be evoked. He will respect decorum, I assure you. Like I told you earlier, he has a very cold temperament, very difficult to provoke.”

“Sound like someone else I know…” Sherlock muttered and turned his eyes to look at John instead, who gave him a crooked smile in the mirror. 

Mycroft pursed his lips and gave his brother a disapproving look.

“Stop your provocations, Sherlock. Try getting into character instead or you truly will be witnessing just how cold I can be when sufficiently provoked.”

Sherlock, with his eyes still locked to John's, gave his friend a mischievous wink and John’s smile grew fonder even if he remained where he was, a few steps behind. 

“Sound more like a challenge than a threat to me.”

Mycroft gave Sherlock a stern look.

“Oh, it’s a two-edged sword, I assure you.”

And with that Mycroft stepped away from his brother and headed for the door.

Without turning around he said over his shoulder:

“We’re leaving in fifteen minutes. By then I expect you to be ready and prepared for the evening, not a word out of line and at your best behaviour. John, we’ll see you at the venue. Your car will be here any minute now so I suggest you head downstairs to wait and leave my brother to finish preparing.”

With those parting words he closed the door firmly behind him and left Sherlock looking at himself in the mirror, wondering if this was not something they were all was going to regret by the end of the evening.


	2. Showtime

The event was being held in one of the Livery Halls of the city and was already bustling with people by the time their black car came to a stop outside the venue and the driver opened the door to let them out. 

Mycroft stepped out first and was then followed by Sherlock who had been exceptionally quiet during the ride and remained just as silent upon arrival. That was either a good sign which could indicate that Sherlock was trying to get into character, but it could just as well mean that he was sulking because he was against this whole idea to begin with. In the end it didn’t matter, as long as he did what he was told to do.   
It suited Mycroft just fine if Sherlock remained quiet for a little while. He had plenty of other things to occupy his mind with. 

It said something about his own state of mind that the hint of sympathy he normally felt whenever Sherlock displayed obvious signs of discomfort and nerves, didn’t dictate him this evening. Perhaps he was nervous himself even if he would never admit to such a thing.   
Instead he felt almost tetchy and short-tempered which was unusual for him. Perhaps it would get better once he knew that Sherlock was going to act the part he had been instructed to play. 

Inside, they were soon greeted by colleagues and others that knew of Mycroft either from experience or reputation. It was the usual group of people that frequented these sorts of events and he seldom bothered to come as the whole purpose of these gatherings held no interest for him. 

He allowed himself to bask a little in their obvious attention but as expected, the person who elicited the most whispers, as well as some curious glances, was of course Sherlock. 

His brother's reputation had indeed preceded him and plenty were the people, both male and female, who gave him curious glances, appreciative looks and a few insipid smiles, along with those who were simply suspicious about his presence.   
Mycroft in general went to functions alone, whenever he bothered to go at all, and never before had he brought his brother along. So, the fact that he had done so tonight was worthy of much speculation. 

Most people would make sure to do the obligatory round of introductions but Mycroft wasn’t interested in showing off his brother like a prizewinning pet, not to this lot, with questions being asked and speculations being made. Sherlock would have detested that sort of treatment anyway.   
Besides, Mycroft was only there to catch the attention of one particular person and as that person was not at the moment present, Mycroft decided to patiently await his arrival and enjoy the event as far as it was actually possible to do so.   
Thankfully there was food and drinks to occupy him, and even if he detested social gatherings like these, he at least tolerated it better than his brother did. 

Sherlock positively radiated from obvious contempt. This reaction naturally soured Mycroft’s mood even further. He wondered why Sherlock couldn’t just behave like normal for a change and wipe that moody look off his face. But acknowledging the futility of pointing this out, Mycroft turned his attention to the food instead. 

Sherlock was quick to pick up on Mycroft’s temper though and as if by reflex, he reacted by grumpily jabbing at his older brother’s resolve, the way he had always managed to do, willingly or not. 

“If you stuff your face with any more canapés, you’re going to ruin your diet,” he whispered tetchily while pressing a finger inside his own collar, as if the bow tie was doing him an injustice by merely existing. Mycroft resisted the urge to push his brother’s fingers away from the collar while he took a deep breath before replying, trying to remain calm. 

“It’s a banquet, Sherlock. The food is supposed to be enjoyed. It would be rude to decline,” he said before he took a large bite out of an amuse bouche consisting of smoked salmon and chèvre. “Diets are for weekdays, not on evenings out.”

Sherlock snorted.

“With that kind of logic you will never be rid of those extra pounds you have been trying to lose for ages now,” he insisted, because when did he ever just let things go, Mycroft thought darkly.

“We can’t all survive on air and nicotine like you do,” he hissed sharply in reply and removed a crumb of chèvre from the corner of his mouth. He wasn’t going to deny himself just because his little brother was in a fretful mood. Food was after all one of the few enjoyments to be had from events like these. 

The threat of Mycroft’s menacing tone didn’t do any magic unfortunately as far as Sherlock was concerned.

“Don’t come complaining to me when you have to make a new appointment to you tailor because your waistcoat has become too snug,” he still dared to taunt his older brother. Mycroft shot him a death glare, finally shutting the insolent brat up. 

In a haughty shrug Sherlock gestured that it was of no consequence to him if his brother wanted to stuff himself out of his wardrobe and then, with an eye roll, he marched off before Mycroft had the opportunity to stop him. Not that Mycroft was particularly eager to subject himself to any further jibes regarding his weight by running after him. Considering how tightly strung Sherlock seemed to be at the moment it wasn’t too surprising that he turned to childish sniping. It was perhaps preferable that he went off to calm down elsewhere or pester someone else. 

There was also the risk that he would go searching for John who was doing his outmost to look like one of the waiters and circulated the room with a tray of refreshments. So far he and Sherlock had not acknowledged each other but Mycroft wasn’t naïve enough to believe that they were not fully aware of each other’s presence despite not exchanging glances. He only hoped John wouldn’t be a hindrance tonight. 

As Mycroft swallowed down yet another piece of the food on offer, this time a bruschetta with cream cheese, asparagus and crab fish, reaching for a glass of sparkling wine to wash it down with, he felt himself being watched and as he turned his head he was met by the calmly amused smile of Charles Magnussen who was standing a few feet away, glass in his hand and assessment in the cold dead-eyed stare.

While locking eyes with Mycroft, Magnussen tilted his head in acknowledgement before stepping up.

“Mr Holmes. It’s not often one sees you at these sorts of events. What’s the occasion?”

For a second Mycroft almost thought that Magnussen was going to add some pointed remark about the food and his eating habits, but of course he didn’t. Not everyone was as straightforward and untactful as his little brother.   
It still grated him though that he had been caught with food in his mouth, taking advantage of the offerings of the buffet. It humanised him in a way that he had no wish to expose to others, friends nor enemies. It made him appear too_normal_.

Carefully he dabbed his lips with a napkin, clearing his throat from any errant crumbs before answering, as neutrally as possible.

“Considering the theme of the evening I felt it prudent to attend,” he offered with slight politeness.

Magnussen’s lips parted in what at least resembled a grin although it looked more like a very unnatural stretching of his facial expressions.

“ I wouldn’t have thought you to be a humanitarian, Mr Holmes.”

“Not particularly, no. But still, some semblance of caring is still judicious when moving in my circles.”

Magnussen nodded in acknowledgement.

“Quite so. Is it true that it is required to attend at least four events a year so as to show some pretence of interest?” 

Mycroft supressed an involuntary shudder and remained stoic under Magnussen's scrutiny.

“Not to my knowledge, no. But it should perhaps be a stipulation. Most of us are not here because we care about the environment, sick children or the poor and homeless, and neither do the organizers expect us to do, as long as we attend and raise the suitable amount required to at least seemingly make a difference.”

“Such cynicism,” Magnussen tutted, raising his eyebrows in mock disapproval, but his amused smile indicated that he found the sincerity welcome. There was no use trying to pretend that they were here out of the goodness of their hearts, they were both intelligent enough to know when to stay honest, at least about some things.

Mycroft was just about to open his mouth to respond when a voice cut in from his right, the familiarity of it causing him to clamp his mouth shut again. 

Showtime apparently. 

Hopefully Sherlock had managed to calm his nerves sufficiently to perform as expected, but considering what came out of his impertinent mouth next, proved it was doubtful.

“No misfortune has ever been solved by gathering a group of people stuffing themselves to their heart’s content while playing dress up and opening their wallets to pay the sum that comes closest to ridding them of any self-guilt earned from belonging to the wealthy and privileged.” 

Magnussen immediately turned to face the intruder and by the look of his wolfish smile when laying eyes on Sherlock, it was clear that he was pleased with what he saw. Despite it being the very reason for their attendance this evening, Mycroft couldn’t help but feel his stomach churn uncomfortably at the sight of it.

“And who might you be? I don’t think we have met before, Mr...?” Magnussen said and extended one of those damp hands of his that was notoriously unpleasant to squeeze in greeting, an experience Mycroft had been exposed to on more occasions than he wished to remember.

Instead of letting further nonsense spew from his brother’s mouth, Mycroft cut in with an introduction.

“Mr Magnussen, this is my younger brother Sherlock. He showed me the curtesy of accompanying me this evening, despite his misgivings about the nature of the event.”

There was a gleam of interest beyond the initial delight that had flashed in Magnussen’s eyes when letting his gaze roam over Sherlock’s form.

“Brother? I’m afraid I don’t see the family resemblance. But I have of course heard of you, Mr Holmes. The _younger_.”

“Younger or not, Mr Holmes is usually in reference to my father or brother; Sherlock will be fine.”

And with that he took Magnussen’s hand in his and if he suffered any discomfort when feeling the other man’s moistness, he didn’t let it show, and Mycroft silently breathed a sigh of relief. At least there was still an inkling of politeness and manner left in his brother.

“A pleasure to meet you, Sherlock. And what is it that you do? Aspiring to be like your brother and enter the corridors of Whitehall, perhaps?”

Sherlock snorted at this and Mycroft threw him a warning glare, but Magnussen actually seemed amused by Sherlock’s brazenness. Or perhaps he was too occupied with looking into the younger man's eyes to really pay attention to what he was saying.

Sherlock made a huge show of appearing to be the opposite of his older brother and put on a most disgusted expression at the suggestion that he would even consider folloing in Mycrroft's footsteps. 

“Hardly. The idea of sitting permanently glued to an office chair is not exactly an alluring prospect. At the moment I’m idling away as my brother would say, trying to find something worthy to occupy my time.”

Mycroft noticed that Sherlock was laying it on pretty thick pretending to be a person still in search of a direction in life. Plenty of time on his hands and no goals in life. It was far from who Sherlock truly was, even if he seemingly didn't do much between cases, but apparently this personality trait appealed to Magnussen because he looked very amused.

“No education?” he asked, while his eyes kept wandering all over Sherlock's well-dressed body that did nothing to hide his slim waist and long legs.

“Chemistry. A waste of time if you ask any member of my family, and I might actually be inclined to agree”

“Oh? No fortune to be had in that line of business?”

Sherlock shrugged his shoulder's as if it was of no consequence to him if chemistry was a lucrative business or not. While doing so, he made sure to turn sideways to reach for a canapé, offering up a glimpse of his backside for Magnussen to feast his eyes on. Then he put the piece of food delicately to his lips to draw attention to his mouth instead, Magnussens's eyes following his every move like a Pavlovian dog. It was quite baffling in Mycroft's opinion. 

“I wouldn’t know as I'm not interested in pursuing a career as a chemist,” Sherlock said when he had swallowed the canapé.

Mycroft was beginning to feel like he wanted to hide behind the palm of his hands but at least Magnussen did still seem intrigued by the nonsense Sherlock was spewing or at least by the show he was putting on regarding his physical assets. 

Reasonably Sherlock couldn’t very well announce that he was a consulting detective who tended to co-operate with Scotland Yard, but perhaps he was taking the idle youth act a little too far. Magnussen did after all appreciate some semblance of intelligence in his conquests. A firm body could only take you that far, it needed to be accompanied with something else or interest would be shortlived indeed.   
On the other hand, Mycroft would not have chosen his brother for this assignment if he hadn't been condident that he would be able to pull it off, it was just the akwardness of having to witness it all that made him slightly uncomfortable. 

From a safe distance, half-hidden behind other mingling guests, John was also observing the scene. 

He had noticed Magnussen approaching Mycroft from behind and how the two men had exchanged words before Sherlock joined them and appearantly the mission was now in full swing if you considerd Sherlock's rather blatant display of his assets. 

John was too far off to hear what they were saying but he wasn’t too far off to see the way Magnussen gave Sherlock an very appreciative look. In fact, the man’s eyes rarely left the younger man after having fixated on him in the first place. 

Magnussen looked like he wanted to devour the man in front of him and it sent a shiver of unpleasantness down John’s spine, even if he knew Sherlock was fully capable of handling the situation. 

It was only a ruse after all, it wasn’t real, however much it did sting to see Sherlock return Magnussen’s look and the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips. Sherlock knew exactly what to do to generate sexual want in others and turn people in front of him weak at the knees, as John could readily attest to himself.

He could acctually relate to how Magnussen probably felt right now, he knew all too well about the feelings that generated through your body when looking at someone like Sherlock, like you couldn’t wait to spread him out in front of you and simply claim him. The difference was of course that he was actually allowed to do so, while Magnussen was certainly not. 

John seldom felt any reason to fear that his friend would find interest in someone else and he certainly didn’t have to worry about Magnussen on that regard and yet...

The question Sherlock had raised earlier about exactly how far he was supposed to take this act and that there was a risk that Magnussen would want more than a prudent kiss on the cheek or a hand on a thigh, had been sitting a little uncomfortably with John during the ride over here. He didn’t want Sherlock to be forced to do anything more with this reptile than what the situation demanded, solely on account of some papers, no matter how many lives it would save.   
And yet, it would be expected of Sherlock to at least seemingly offer the promise of something sexual, that was the whole point of the plan after all. 

John wasn’t a particularly jealous person under normal circumstances, and he felt very secure in the knowledge that his feelings were reciprocated by Sherlock when they had finally settled into their new arrangement as a couple. But still, another man’s hands on what was only John’s to be had? He couldn’t deny that it would bother him immensely. 

He wished that he had taken that notion a little more seriously when it had been addressed by Sherlock earlier, but the suggestion that Mycroft had somehow omitted to take such an important factor into consideration hadn’t seemed plausible at the time and now it was too late do anything about it. 

All he could really do was to continue to keep an eye on developments while trying to blend in and hope for the evening to be over soon enough.

Magnussen had turned to face Mycroft now, a predatory smile glued to his lips. It was only a marginal improvement of his usual expression but a strong testament of his current mood and that surely had to count as a success Mycroft thought with a flutter of hope.   
Despite being the one who had originally come up with this plan himself, he seemed to have forgotten what a loose cannon his brother could be. But despite this fact, Magnussen’s interest was obviously piqued. 

If it was on account of the dashing figure his brother was cutting in the slim-fit suit, because his was the younger brother to the reputable Mycroft Holmes or if it was because of his invigorating brazenness among a group of people who had turned smarminess along with stuffy politeness into an art form, was difficult to say, but the interest in Magnussen’s eyes were there all the same. 

But the idea that the man would try something more intimate with Sherlock was admittedly not a pleasing thought and if needed, Mycroft might have to intervene if he saw signs of that happening. Better him than John anyway. 

Despite John’s promises to stay in the background and let things take their course, Mycroft wasn’t completely confident that John would be able to stand silently by and see his lover being pawed over, it still remained to be seen if he could handle it for one evening.

But for now, if Mycroft wished for Sherlock to have any success in his venture, he needed to leave him alone with Magnussen. So without further ado Mycroft pretended to catch sight of someone he urgently needed to speak to and excused himself. Smoothly he disappeared into the crowd of guests without turning around to see if he would be missed or if Magnussen only had eyes for treat in front of him.

The rest of the evening went by with a slow pace and the pointless mingling with people Mycroft had no wish to speak to more than necessary. The food was a small comfort and he began to feel a little lightheaded as the evening progressed and the waiters kept refilling his glass, so eventually he decided that enough was enough and it was time for him to depart.

He had seen neither Sherlock nor Magnussen since leaving them behind hours ago and hopefully that was a good sign. His brother would surely have sought him out if he had not succeeded in keeping Magnussen entertained, and since Mycroft had not seen him, he concluded that they still were together somewhere. 

There was also the telling, if slightly unpleasant sign that while in the men’s room, he had overheard two men talking about his brother in a rather lewd way and mentioned that he had been seen in Magnussen’s company in the gallery, watching the Shakespearean motifs that adorned the ceiling. 

Knowing that Sherlock had no interest in art, and even less so in dramatic literature from the Elizabethan era, it was a sure sign that Sherlock must have succumbed to playing the part according to Mycroft’s directions. If Magnussen had a wish to walk the gallery with his newfound companion, Sherlock must have agreed to do so. He would most likely complain about it to Mycroft later. 

“What do you suppose Holmes will say if word reaches him that his brother is socializing with someone like Magnussen?” a man named Pemberton said.   
He was one of the Foreign secretary’s many pointless recruits who had more ambition than actual sense. 

Mycroft, still inside his cubicle, pricked his ears at the mention of his name.

“The question is rather why someone like that would even want to be mingling with a cold fuck like Magnussen,” came the reply, this from another useless half-wit of the Foreign Secretary’s, by the name of Hawkes. The Foreign Secretary really had an astonishing number of incompetent underlings pestering his office, more so than any other faculty at the moment.

“If he grew up with Mycroft Holmes, he’s probably used to cold fish,” Pemberton snorted. “But I agree, the younger one is too hot to be wasting his time with those two yawns. Maybe I should help him escape Magnussen’s clutches, make him a better offer?”

There was the sound of snickering from Pemberton and Mycroft clenched his fists in anger. How dared they talk about his brother in such a manner? As if Sherlock would even look at any of them! At least Hawkes had a little more sense, as he wasn’t willing to join in on the laughter.

“Yes, you try that, Pemberton. But look without touching I’d say; not sure Holmes would appreciate your dirty hands on his pretty little brother.”

Pemberton was apparently both stupid as well as unrepentant and immediately snapped back.

“Then he shouldn’t have brought him along tonight. Parading someone looking like that around without expecting people to try their luck is just foolish. And Holmes is no fool.”

“Well he’s hardly trying to pimp his brother out to underlings like you, is he? He probably just brought him along for the company, as the rest of us hardly live up to The Ice Man's standards. He almost never bothers to come to these gatherings anyway. Why do you think he made an exception tonight?”

“Who cares, I haven’t bothered talking to him. He always comes across as perpetually displeased with us all, he can very well entertain himself if he made the decision to come here. My boss says that he has icicles where his balls should be. I’m just happy I don't have to work directly with him, just imagine what his staff has to suffer through.”

“Well, that’s probably the reason he brought his own entertainment then, as no one else is that keen to talk to him,” Hawkes offered before turning the tap on to wash his hands.

There was that impish snickering again from Pemberton and Mycroft sourly plotted to have a word with his superior on Monday to see what could be made about a swift relocation of the man, preferably to some remote mind-numbingly desolate part of the world. 

Mycroft was used to be the odd one out at social gatherings and it didn’t bother him as he neither craved or needed the approval of these small men. Their snide remarks meant nothing to him. But the way Pemberton talked about Sherlock as if he was someone to be lusted after, to be had by just anyone, it wasn’t tolerable, even if it surprised him a little how strongly he felt about this.

Unaware of Mycroft’s presence and his dark thoughts about him, Pemberton continued his tirade on the other side of the door.

“Ha, ha, yes. Lucky he brought along a looker though. Did you see how fit he was? And those curls, they’re just made for grabbing while shoving a cock down his throat.” 

Mycroft's eyes actually widened when hearing this, before narrowing again, his nails digging hard into the soft skin of his palms.

“Shut it, Pemberton, they’re brothers. And don’t get caught saying out loud that you’ve ogled Mycroft Holmes’s little brother, he would send MI5 straight after you without batting an eyelid.” 

Pemberton just snorted.

“I’m hardly going to say it to his face, am I? But if I spot the brother later during the evening, I might even have a go at him myself. He looks like someone how would appreciate a little fun.”

And with those parting words the two men left.

Seething with anger, Mycroft decided that Pemberton would be dealt with accordingly and not grace the halls of the Foreign Secretary ever again. At least the information that Sherlock and Magnussen had been seen together served as confirmation that the plan was ticking along as it should, and shortly after, Mycroft left the banquet.

Not long after his departure, John decided to leave as well, before being forced to join the rest of the staff with cleaning duties. 

He had lost sight of Sherlock and Magnussen during the evening and only noted Mycroft departure without actually speaking to the man, so feeling a little left behind and useless, he decided to leave as well, feeling more useful waiting for Sherlock’s return iat home instead.

When he came back to Baker Street it was well past midnight but despite the late hour John realised that he wouldn’t be able to sleep as long as he hadn’t heard anything from Sherlock,.So instead he made himself a cup of tea, hesitated between opting for the tv or reading a book, but then decided that the book at least would make him more susceptible to any sounds coming from the front door. 

But the hours came and went without any sign of Sherlock’s return and eventually John reluctantly succumbed to sleep.


	3. Strange awakenings

When he woke, it was dark in the room and at first he didn’t know what it was that had woken him up.  
He was still sitting in the armchair where he had parked himself while waiting for Sherlock. He felt a stiffness to his neck and lifted his hand to massage it while letting his eyes roam the room, looking for an explanation to his awakening.  
He normally was a sound sleeper, as Sherlock could attest to, being the one who shared a bed with John on most nights. Sometimes, if Sherlock had to work late or one of them was ill, or the worst option, if they had been fighting, they slept in separate rooms, but otherwise they had more or less shared the same bed since they had taken their relationship from flatmates and friends to lovers. 

Throwing a quick glance at his phone it told John that it was well after 03:00 AM and yet again he let his eyes roam the room for the cause of disturbance. Normally he would be soundly asleep by now and not easily roused.

He noticed that the door out to the landing was slightly ajar but there was no light on in the hall outside. He couldn’t remember if he had been the one to leave it like that. It was possible, he had after all fallen asleep while he was supposed to sit up and wait, maybe he had left it open for Sherlock's sake? Or maybe Mrs Hudson had been up to check on him, she did that sometime, despite adamantly claiming that she was only their landlady. 

Unable to figure out what could have disturbed his sleep, he let it go while his eyes adjusted to the soft light in of the room that came from the lamp on Sherlock’s desk that he had left on. 

There were no left messages on his phone and feeling a little disappointed by this, he put it back in his pocket before he stiffly rose from where he was sitting, trying to stretch out his limbs to prevent any forthcoming soreness. Then he decided to give up his fruitless effort of staying up and wait for Sherlock to return and went over to turn the light off before heading for his own bedroom, despite a nagging thought at the back of his mind that he perhaps should begin to worry about where Sherlock actually was. The banquet had been over and done with ages ago and surely it wouldn’t take him this much time to deal with Magnussen? 

Mycroft had assured them both but John in particular that Magnussen was completely harmless when it came to actual violence, otherwise John wouldn’t have allowed Sherlock to take him on alone. After having had the chance to observe the media mogul at the banquet earlier, John had to agree that the weedy man with the spectacles had hardly seemed very frightening. 

So what was taking Sherlock this long?

Magnussen had a flat close to Pall Mall and then a larger house outside of London called Appledore, but it seemed unlikely that they had gone there after last night’s events. John calculated that even if they had stayed at the banquet until the very last hour, Pall Mall wasn’t far off and they must have spent a substantial time together already. 

The idea that Magnussen might try to take advantage of Sherlock sexually once again rose to the surface, but he waived it away. If such an occurrence was to arise, Sherlock would figure out a way to avoid it from happening, John should not feel the need to worry about it. Sherlock was hardly a fragile violet, he was fully able to fend for himself when necessary. He at least felt confident in the knowledge that Sherlock would never allow anything to happen that went beyond what John would accept. 

As he crossed the landing on his way upstairs, he felt strangely self-conscious for some reason, as if someone was watching him, which was absurd of course as he knew very well that he was alone. For a second the thought that Sherlock might have returned but not wished to wake him up, hit him.  
He hadn’t bothered to look if the door to Sherlock’s bedroom had been open or shut after all. 

But then he rejected this idea as just being wishful thinking as Sherlock rarely bothered with showing others any particular concern, not even when that other person was John. He would have woken him up to tell him about his evening, however deeply asleep John might have been. 

Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling of not being quite alone in the eerily gloomy flat and despite going against his own sense of logic, he did turn around to stare into the empty darkness both behind and in front of him before continuing up the stairs to his bedroom. 

He seldom slept there anymore, they used Sherlock’s much larger room both for sleeping in and for sex. But occasionally, when Sherlock wasn’t home or not going to bed at all, John sometimes climbed the stairs to his old room. The darkness made it impossible to see clearly down the seventeen steps that lead to the ground floor, all he saw was a velvet blackness and even if John wasn’t particularly scared of the dark, he quickly turned his eyes upwards instead and determinedly went ahead to his own lodgings instead.

A look at his alarm clock on the bedtime table told him that it was time to go to bed properly if he wanted to have a sporting chance of staying on top of things in a couple of hours. There was after all no use staying up waiting for Sherlock as he had no idea of knowing when he would be back. He would come home when he was finished and John might just as well catch some well-deserved sleep in the meantime. 

He woke a few hours later by the familiar dipping of his mattress behind his back and when he sleepily turned his head, he was faced with his flatmate’s naked form pressing against his own semi-naked body, a wicked grin on his lips. The heap of discarded clothes by the door told him that Sherlock must have gone straight up here to look for John and had apparently been hit by inspiration.

While Sherlock opted for complete nakedness when in bed, John never managed to feel completely comfortable doing that himself, so he usually slept in boxers and a t-shirt, even a set of pyjamas in the winter when it was particularly cold. Lat night as he had returned to his old room to sleep, he had actually managed to locate an old discarded t-shirt from his army days and a pair of worn pyjama bottoms that had to serve as sleep wear for the few hours he had actually managed to get some rest. 

Before John had the chance to open his mouth and say something while his still sleepy eyes tried to focus on what was happening in front of him, Sherlock raised his index finger to his lips and made a silent shushing gesture before snaking his arm around John’s middle and then pressing a naked thigh against his lower back. With nimble fingers he made a quick process of gaining entrance inside the lining of the pyjama bottoms and found his way towards John’s soft penis, that had yet not fully woken up. Sherlock’s dexterous fingers made a short process of achieving a more alert result and while John’s brain still struggled with ridding himself of the last vestiges of sleep, other parts of him were quicker to jolt into action.

Sherlock was clearly in a good mood if his eager movements up and down John’s hardening cock was any indication. That probably meant that he had been successful in achieving results with Magnussen last night, and settling with that knowledge for now, happy that Sherlock was back unharmed, John relaxed into the other man’s touch and allowed himself to enjoy the pleasure his flatmate was bestowing upon him. Even if Sherlock often was an eager participant in sexual activities at all hours of the day, this was still a rather unexpected awakening as far as John was concerned, but who was he to complain?  
One of the things he loved most about Sherlock was that life with him was never boring and predictable.

Soon enough his pyjama bottoms were pulled down to his ankles and Sherlock’s generous lips had engulfed John’s throbbing cock, letting his tongue swirl the head like licking a lollipop before letting it glide along its length down to the shaft, then taking one of the testicles into his mouth while massaging the other with his long fingers.  
Disappearing into a haze of lustful fogginess, John let go of his earlier sleepiness, succumbing completely to pure carnal pleasure as the other man brought him to completion and by that action started the day in the best way imaginable.

An hour earlier Sherlock had managed to cause a similarly unexpected disturbance in a flat in different part of town, but the occupant of that resident had at least not been asleep when Sherlock had entered, but was instead busy pounding the fastmoving treadmill he tried using at least a few times a week, preferably in the morning before preparing for work.

Spent and still trying to catch his breath afterward, Mycroft panted heavily while staring up at the ceiling, his heart beating incessantly against his ribcage. Despite his efforts to do this as regularly as possible, he wasn’t a creature of dexterity and he never got used to the way exercise made him heavily out of breath and sweat profusely. As Sherlock had once remarked, when he for the first time had caught sight of his older brother running, the difference in physical appearance between him working out and having sex had to be a fine line indeed.

“You really are in a dreadful condition, Mycroft. You spend too much time sitting behind a desk and eating far too many rich business lunches, this way you will have next to no stamina left for other activities in life.”

It was a small sting but said without any true malice, more teasing than intended to actually insult, and Mycroft had to concede that no one at his age should sound like he was about to have a heart attack after running 15 minutes on a treadmill. He should really do something about this depressive fact. Eventually.

“I would claim that some of us actually need to work out to stay in shape as we can’t all be blessed with your metabolism, but I’m not going to say it as it risks turning your already swollen head even more enlarged by doing so. No need to feed that ego of yours even more than you do yourself,” Mycroft said while he brought a small towel to his face to wipe off some of the sweat. He didn’t like how his body reacted to being pushed physically. It was disgustingly damp and painful work, but he also didn’t like to see the return of any wretched weight gain that he so easily suffered. So, more often than not, this was the preferable option. 

“So, after having broken into my home at this early hour, care to inform me of the developments from last night? How did it go with Magnussen?”

Sherlock simply shrugged although a satisfied glint in his eyes gave him away. He was clearly pleased about something but apparently wanted to play hard to get for some reason.

Mycroft frowned at this reaction and walked over to the table where he had a water bottle and a larger towel waiting for him. Normally he would have been on his way to the shower by now, but he was hardly going to undress while his brother was leaning against the door frame nonchalantly, hands in his pockets of the same suit he had been dressed in last night. He must have opted to go straight here after finishing with Magnussen, without stopping by Baker Street first. Unfortunately, as so often was the case with his brother, Sherlock was trying to act coy, as he always tended to do when he possessed information he knew that Mycroft wanted.

Deciding that it was too early for such childish games, Mycroft’s tone took on a firmer tone when he didn’t get a reply. 

“Do you need a reminder of who I am referring to? _Charles Magnussen_. The main reason for our outing yesterday. The man you assumingly spent many hours in the company of. Did you succeed in your task?”

Sherlock snorted at this.

“Of course I know who you are talking about, I’m not as hung over as some others that come to mind at the moment. Too many glasses of Champagne to stave of the boredom?”

Mycroft ignored the needling and took his time drinking from his water bottle before he replied. 

“Not much else to do at those events. Food and drink are after all one of the few satisfying entertainments to be had when trying to mingle with a crowd of that assortment. But you digress, Sherlock, stay on topic please.”

“I am trying to get to the point, but you caught me off guard by asking about something as irrelevant as Magnussen when there is something much more interesting to be addressed.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow in question.

“And what is that?”

That gleam of satisfaction in his brother’s eyes now grew to an actual glow.

“A completely new player in the game, someone far more interesting than your relatively harmless media mogul.”

Sherlock positively beamed as he announced this and if he hadn’t looked so pleased with himself, Mycroft might not have reacted the way he did, but as he now feared that his brother had gone off on one of his pointless side-tracks when the reason for last night’s charade had been so painfully straightforward, Mycroft couldn’t help by letting a hint of irritation into his voice. As he usually managed to keep his composure despite Sherlock’s usual efforts of trying to make him lose his temper, he was now inclined to blame the few hours of sleep, his hangover, as well as the spent state after his work out, for allowing himself to get annoyed with his little brother. 

“_Harmless_? A man took his life recently because of him!”

“That wasn’t solely because of Magnussen. If the victim hadn’t done something himself, Magnussen wouldn’t have been able to blackmail him in the first place.”

Mycroft actually looked baffled now. What was Sherlock playing at?

“So, you’re saying he had himself to blame for becoming the victim of a ruthless blackmailer, driving him to such utter despair that he rather chooses to end his life then having his secret exposed?”

“No, what I’m saying is that Magnussen is toothless as long as people don’t provide him with fodder in the first place. This new player causes havoc regardless of other people and their insignificant secrets. He’s quite fascinating. And far more dangerous.”

Sherlock uttered that final word as if almost in reverence and Mycroft didn’t like it one bit. 

One recurring disagreement between them, stemming so far back as Sherlock’s university days, was his brother’s childish wish to become a consulting detective.  
He had always been more or less obsessed with all sorts of criminal activity, the more gruesome and cunning the better and at one point their parents had even wondered if it was a future criminal mastermind that their youngest son strived to become. Combined with his other strange peculiarities it wasn’t too surprising that they assumed this to be the case, even if Mycroft had never truly believed that his brother would choose that particular career for himself.  
Stubbornly Mycroft had always assumed that his little brother would grow out of it eventually, as he had with his pirate phase, or his short-lived career as a pickpocket, but unfortunately it had never happened. 

As he had begun to realise that his brother wasn’t willing to let go of his dream, Mycroft had at first found it difficult to wrap his head around what a consulting detective actually was and how it was going to bring his brother a successful career instead of causing him to simply loiter about, smoking too many cigarettes while dwelling too deep into the sensationalising news that depicted the most spectacular or brutal crimes with loud headlines. 

Mycroft had secretly always wished that his brother would join him in his own chosen path of strategic politics and diplomacy, but had eventually realised that Sherlock had no interest whatsoever in that line of work. So, eventually he has accepted the situation for what it was and also realised that he couldn’t control how Sherlock spent his time and what he wanted to do for a living, even if it didn’t mean that he liked it.  
His little brother had always nurtured this hazardous streak of running headfirst into danger and things had hardly improved when John Watson had joined the picture. Therefore, he didn’t react particularly pleased when Sherlock got all starry-eyed and started talking about some new threat on the horizon, instead of the one they already had in front of them. 

“Sherlock, please. Try to stay on topic. What are you talking about? What happened with Magnussen?”

A touch disappointed that Mycroft apparently wasn’t as excited as he was about this new mysterious player, Sherlock still relented and answered the question. 

“Well, regarding Magnussen, there isn’t really that much to tell. The first couple of hours was simply spent on that tiresome game of sexual wooing, luring and encouraging something that I had no intention of giving him. It was all very exhausting. Despite his cold exterior and quite off-putting personality, he is basically like everybody else when it comes to desire. His hands were a little all over the place during the evening.”

“_Really_?”

Mycroft pursed his lips in displeasure.  
The idea of Magnussen’s hands on his brother’s body was an unpleasant notion. That idea of anyone’s hands on his brother or his brother in a sexual situation of any kind naturally didn’t sit well with him. What had happened to the very underappreciated trait of being a gentleman? 

“Well, I did tell you, Mycroft, that you missed putting that particular aspect into consideration when you planed this little scheme.”

Ignoring this little jab, Mycroft turned away from Sherlock so he wouldn’t have to look at the smug glimmer in his brother's eyes. Behind his back Sherlock continued to talk. 

“He wants to meet for lunch by the way. I’m considering accepting his invitation.”

********

Back at Baker Street, still entangled in limbs as well as in bedlinen, Sherlock had just told John the same information.

“What?! Lunch? Why does he want that?” John disrupted, his voice with a hint of suspicion in it now. 

This was supposed to have been a one-time thing, Sherlock batting his lashes at Magnussen so he could gain entrance to his flat and locate that secret vault. Going to lunch with the man the next day had not been a part of the arrangement and it naturally didn't please him to hear about this new development.

Sherlock stretched his body, exposing his naked backside for a moment and it was difficult to tell if he was trying to cause a diversion for John’s mounting annoyance or if he truly didn’t realise why going to lunch with another man would annoy his lover.

“I suspect he simply wants to see me again.”

John narrowed his eyes at this.

“And why would he want that? Did something happen between you last night? Does he somehow think that you are available to pursue?”

Sherlock turned his head to look at John closely now. 

He had that look in his eyes that he always had when he didn’t understand why people were making such a hassle of something that in his mind was completely irrelevant. 

“Nothing particularly exciting happened between Magnussen and myself. After he had insisted on taking a walk through that boring art gallery with the gaudily painted ceiling, we went on a ride along the river in his car before ending up at his flat around 01.”

This actually caused John to sit up straight rather abruptly from where he had been lounching on the bed, a flare of obvious anger in his eyes now.

“It sounds to me like he was trying to impress you. Like he was actually taking you out on a _date_!”

"Nonsense."

"Oh, I'd say it's classic behaviour for someone hoping to end up with a happy result by end of the evening!"

Sherlock shook his head at this, clearly not seeing the situation the way John did.

“He doesn’t exactly strike me as the romantic type of man at all. More sexual predator than sensual lover if I’m honest. That car ride was all about spurning his advances by the way, I'll have to thank Mycroft for that later. He should consider pimping me out to a less sex-driven individual next time. When we finally reached Magnussen’s flat, I had been forced to endure far more than my brother’s suggested peck on the cheek. Luckily for me, things got more interesting when we entered the building.”

All sorts of images were now swirling around inside John’s head, one more despicable than the next and they all involved Magnussen trying his damnedest to let his hands wander all over Sherlock’s body. Both he and Mycroft had clearly miscalculated this side of Magnussen and if Sherlock hadn’t looked so indifferent about it all, John might even had demanded that Mycroft should apologise for this severe mishap in his plotting. John was so far gone in his own thoughts by now that he hardly registered that Sherlock had continued talking.

“I unfortunately didn’t get the opportunity to look for any vault. He hardly let me out of his sight, it would simply not have been achievable. Mr Magnussen only had one thing on his mind once we got to his place and it was rather difficult to steer him in another direction when his hopes had been risen. But lucky for me, there was someone else waiting for him as we entered his flat.”

This was perhaps the biggest difference in his retelling of last night events.  
John did clearly have difficulties getting past the information about Magnussen having tried to get Sherlock to engage in sexual activities with him. In fact, beyond that piece of information, he wasn’t interested in hearing the rest.

Mycroft on the other hand had chosen not to listen too closely when Sherlock told him about Magnussen’s insistent advances, he had only been interested in why Sherlock hadn’t succeeded with the task he had been given.

While still in his sweaty running gear, Mycroft had looked decidedly disappointed with Sherlock’s story so far, but at least he had bothered to ask who the person who waited for Magnussen was.  
It had clearly not occurred to him that Magnussen might not be alone in his flat. Bachelor or not, maybe he still had people who kept him satisfied at all hours Or perhaps the rumour of his bachelor status was simply untrue? Or had it been a business partner? One of his blackmailing targets?  
Increasingly disappointing, Sherlock hadn’t been able to give a satisfying answer to that question either.

“He didn’t introduce himself so I don’t have a name, but they appeared to be in some sort of business arrangement together and just to clarify my interest in him, it wasn’t the kind of business Magnussen runs officially. The man was very irritated over the fact that Magnussen had kept him waiting for so long, so irritated in fact that he didn’t bother to hide his annoyance despite my presence. He caused quite a scene and started waiving his hands about like some overindulged drama queen. At first I thought that he sounded rather ridiculous, but there was something in what he said that actually piqued my interest...”

Mycroft had decided to make an interruption here as he felt that Sherlock was again going off topic. This had been about targeting Magnussen and even if it wasn’t a complete surprise that the man had some connections within the criminal classes, it had nothing to do with what they had been trying to achieve in regards to his blackmailing. 

“That all sounds very interesting, Sherlock, but what I want to know is, do you think the vault is in London or at Appledore, how are we going to get access to it and how do we move along from here, as you clearly didn’t fulfil what you were supposed to do last night.”

This had immediately irritated Sherlock and swiftly he pushed himself from his leaning position by the door, cold annoyance evident in his eyes now. 

“I did what was manageable to achieve under the circumstances I was faced with. Not my fault your moronic plan was made to backfire. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. It was never going to succeed in the way that you had planned it.”

Mycroft swivelled to face his brother, anger in his voice as well now.  
,  
“It could have, if you had concentrated on what you were supposed to do, instead of getting sidetracked by some henchman that you thought was more interesting. That has always been your weakness, Sherlock, letting yourself be distracted with the promise of a greater temptation than the one you already have.”

This was apparently the end of Sherlock's patience as he was already turning to face the door, clearly about to storm out.

“Sorry to have disappointed you. Maybe you should have sent one of your minions to do the job instead, as I have so clearly failed your expectations.”

And with that the door was slammed shut behind him so thoroughly it threatened to fall off its hinges.

Mycroft sighed.

He hadn’t meant for it to come out as if Sherlock had not done his part, but it needed to be said that his focus had clearly shifted from the main mission to something he had found infinitely more entertaining and where did that leave Mycroft’s problem regarding Magnussen? 

As much as he hated the idea, especially after everything Sherlock had told him about the man and his too persistently sexual advances, it was clear that the lunch offer needed to be accepted if they were going to get anywhere with Magnussen, and as he contemplated how he was going to make Sherlock accept that invitation, he gathered his towel and the water bottle before exiting the room.

*********** 

The second fight of the morning that took place less than an hour later at Baker Street had resulted in a very agitated John who wasn’t prepared to listen to a single word coming out of Sherlock’s mouth at the moment.

When Sherlock had dared to point out that John’s unjustified and quite childish jealousy was threatening to overcloud facts with silly imagination, and that the problem hadn’t been Magnussen's sexual pestering, but rather the fact that Mycroft’s plan had been futile from beginning to end, did nothing to calm John down. 

When Sherlock added that the main reason why he hadn’t wanted to go along with it in the first place was because he knew that Joh would react irrationally like this afterwards, itresulted in more doors being slammed shut and the stomping of feet from John when he barged downstairs echoed all the way down to Mrs Hudson.

As he made as how of slamming unnecessarily hard in the kitchen cupboards while trying to look for a clean mug to take his morning coffee in, John heard the front door banging shut downstairs. 

Rushing over to the window he saw Sherlock stalking off in a temper down the street, clearly not pleased with John at the moment either. The fact that he apparently was so irritated that he had stormed off without proper clothes on, spoke volumes. But John was too angry himself to care about that right now. Sherlock could very well freeze if he wanted to. Maybe Magnussen could offer him a warm lap for his cold body to snuggle inside if necessary?  
This idea naturally did nothing to calm his already agitated nerves, as John went back to the kitchen to finish making some breakfast while he continued to seethe with anger for a long time afterwards.

***********

Deciding to let his brother cool off, Mycroft took a shower and then began to get prepare for work. His phone was already bringing attention to a few pressing matters and without further ado he opened up his wardrobe to pick out a suitable outfit and get ready for the day.

When dressed and suitably groomed, he took a cup of strong coffee to steel himself for the veritable onslaught Sherlock might hurl at him when and if they made contact later that day.

His brother was a rather tempestuous creature despite the fact that many people thought of him as rather cold and stand-offish when first encountering him. Those people had naturally not met Mycroft and didn’t know that there was whole other level of being truly cold-tempered.

This morgnings behaviour was a somewhat tiresome side to Sherlock’s already difficult personality, this flare for being dramatic and throwing tantrums, a side that Mycroft had some trouble appreciating but had learned to handle at least fifty percent of the time. The other fifty percent of the time, he despaired and felt like he wanted to rip out what remained of his already thinning hair. It this was such a moment, depended solely on the development in the next couple of hours and what his brother decided to do next.

However much it chagrined him to bow down to these anger tantrums, he still made the effort to call his brother when he had finished his coffee, but naturally there was no answer. Knowing Sherlock, he could sulk for days if he wanted to.  
The problem was that Mycroft couldn’t afford the luxury of allowing him to do that. Not now when Magnussen’s interest in Sherlock had been piqued.

Deciding that there wasn’t much he could do about the situation at the moment, he went to work as usual to get on with his day as he normally would, hoping that he would hear from Sherlock eventually. In the meantime there was always that issue with Pemberton to deal with while waiting for his brother to cool off. He wasn’t going to embarrass himself any further by making any calls that would only go unanswered.

The stalemate lasted well into the afternoon before he, as the older and more responsible brother, decided to swallow any pride he harboured and reach out by at least sending a message. 

He had been informed that Sherlock had gone straight to Baker Street after his visit to Mycroft, but then had left in a rather agitated state less than an hour later, the front door apparently slammed quite thoroughly in his wake, and in a state of being only half-dressed. Mycroft’s intel had then lost track of him soon after and had not been able to find him again. 

If his text message didn’t yield any results, he would have to resort to finding Sherlock through other elements. But that was always a solution that annoyed his brother immensely, as he felt Mycroft abused his power and resources to keep track of him in a too intusive manner, so it was always a risk going down that road. 

But if the boy was stubborn enough to hold a grudge over something as silly as the argument from this morning, there was nothing else to do but turn to such actions. This business with Magnussen still hanged heavily over Mycroft’s head and it needed to come to a resolution. For that, he unfortunately needed Sherlock to help him out.

He could concede that his brother had made an interesting observation last night regarding Magnussen’s mysterious visitor and such information could perhaps be useful in the long run, but he was not the main focus right now and could, if necessarily be dealt with later, depending on his importance and relevance to Mycroft. This thing with Magnussen on the other hand, could not be left hanging and neither could the situation be allowed to turn into some idiotic attempt at playing detective and create a mystery that perhaps even wasn't one to begin with, when so much else was at stake. Just for the sake of stroking his little brother’s ego.

So instead he sent a simple and succinct message.

_Where are you? We need to talk. Did you meet with Magnussen for lunch?_

Mycroft never had mastered the gift of flowery ways of expressing himself, he was too proud, cold and inexperienced in that field and his brother was equally unable to respond in such a fashion. Therefor it was easier to just send texts that contained what he wanted to say.  
But there was a reason why he preferred talking on the phone instead of texting.  
The very limited option of the written word lacked the very useful element of tone of voice and other ways of expressing more distinctly what he wanted to say. For people like Sherlock and Mycroft there was too much room for misinterpretations if you went even an inch beyond a mere factual message. So even if he had wanted to say something additional to calm his brother’s ruffled feathers, it was better if he didn’t do it with a text.

Sending a text when you eagerly awaited the reply was also a thing Mycroft didn’t like. It kept things hanging in the air with an anticipation he didn’t appreciate, as it made him feel powerless. There was no way he could force anyone to respond, they either did or they didn’t and that was that. So all he could really do was to wait for something he had no idea if he was ever going to get. 

An hour after he had sent the text, instead of his brother responding, he got another type of message that came from a different, and very unexpected direction when his PA came in to announce that he had a visitor waiting outside in the form of Mr Charles Magnussen.


	4. A lesson in control

Perplexed Mycroft considered why Magnussen had decided to seek him out, but decided it prudent to let the man in. A part of him wondered if had something to do with Sherlock, if his brother had perhaps not managed to keep up the façade of the charming and enticing young man that he had played yesterday, there was after all only so much patience to be expected from Sherlock in the end.

When Magnussen stepped inside, Mycroft made sure to remain calmly seated behind his desk, exuding the air of someone so important that he didn’t need to put on a show of visualising it, he would let the firm look in his eyes to do the talking, knowing full well that small gestures spoke louder than tiresome obvious signs of displayed power. A common misconception in his line of business as well as Magnussen’s was that in order to be powerful, you had to project a certain image.  
He had seen many inconsequential characters try everything from ostentatiously large desks to stuffed animal heads on the wall behind them, as well as those who tried acting unscrupulous by appearing angry, loud or worse, insulting.  
If it hadn’t been so painfully cringeworthy to realise that these people often had a platform to officially show off these silly poses to the public, it would have been a matter for laughter. As it was now, he pitied those who felt the need to act so blatantly ridiculous, but even more he pitied those who fell for that act.

With his scrutinizing eye he noticed that there was something a little unsettling about the other man as he stepped inside Mycroft’s office.

Outwardly Magnussen looked like he usually did, a good suit, nothing too flashy but rather clean Scandinavian lines of a high-quality cut, the thin hair meticulously combed back, beard trimmed. His usual armour of appearance.

But there was something worrying in the eyes peering over the titanium rim of his glasses, a glint of something on edge and for a second Mycroft wondered if he had perhaps been too late with his plan to shackle Magnussen, maybe the man had already managed to find something to use against him and his colleagues and last night had simply been a waste of his time, a fruitless game that had held no consequences for the actions to come. 

There was also something determined in the setting of Magnussen’s mouth, a sign not usually there.  
On all the other occasions when Mycroft had met him, Magnussen had a slight smirk on his lips and a dead-eyed stare, unpleasantness coming out of every pore, but not overtly set on causing any trouble or discomfort, he just saw himself as a businessman conducting transactions like everybody else, no matter that those transactions ruined lives. 

There was never a superficial purpose for people to dislike him, they did so because of what he did, not because of what he looked like. Normally he simply displayed a hint of slight amusement, as if it was all just a game to him. A pointless but entertaining side-business. He usually didn’t gain that much by his extortions, he did it simply because he could. 

But now, he clearly had something on his mind and hopefully, whatever that was, it wouldn’t be a price too high to pay.

They silently eyed each other but Mycroft who had mastered this type of game since his early teens, had no problem remaining calm and waiting under the expectant stare of the other man. The only other true opponent in this force of wills who had occasionally managed to have him beat, was Sherlock of course, not normally a person who thrived in playing the waiting game but who could master it occasionally out of sheer stubbornness. 

So Mycroft simply continued to look at his visitor until Magnussen stepped closer, and seated himself in the chair on the other side of the desk. The chair where those who came for guidance or punishment usually ended up sitting. Mycroft suspected that Magnussen wasn’t looking for either of those though.

When Magnussen finally decided to speak, it was with a voice opting for smoothness but still letting a noticeable hint of irritation surface as well.

“I spent a rather fascinating time with your little brother last night, Mr Holmes,”

Without moving a single muscle, Mycroft continued to look at him, not bothering to reply to something he already knew.

“I got the impression that he enjoyed himself as well. He has a rather rare combination of intelligence and looks. A very unusual specimen if I may say so. _Unique_,” Magnussen continued and the determination in his eyes was briefly replaced by a more shameless gaze and to Mycroft’s horror he actually ran his tongue over the upper row of his teeth in a display of innuendo so thinly-veiled it was practically screaming from the rooftops.

Mycroft strongly detested the suggestion that his brother was some sort of creature to be talked about as a specimen, and even more so, that Magnussen deigned to make sexually suggestive gestures at his brother’s expense, but still he said nothing about it at the moment, just waiting to hear what had actually brought Magnussen to his door.

“I greatly enjoyed his company as well and suggested that he join me for lunch today. But unlike yesterday, he wasn’t very forthcoming.” Magnussen was back to looking determined again, clearly displeased with having been stood up.

So, Sherlock had not attended lunch then. Could it mean he was so annoyed with Mycroft that he had decided to skip their little plan all together or was there something else behind his absence? 

Had John perhaps put up protestations against Sherlock joining Magnussen for another meeting? It was quite likely. 

In that aspect John Watson was as predictable as most men who happened to find someone a little out of their league and who struggled with that notion just as strongly as they struggled to keep that person under close watch, so as not to lose them to someone more worthy. It was a weak trait to be so jealous, Sherlock would naturally not leave John for anyone else solely based on a comparison of status, especially not to someone like Magnussen. But the destructive combination of feeling like the underdog as well as an instinctive streak of protectiveness was unfortunately a part of John Watson’s personality, and if flaring up too often, it could turn problematic for his brother and his army doctor. 

Because Sherlock didn’t like anyone telling him what to do, not even John, not when it was case related. The doctor could trick him into eating the odd portion of food or quit smoking indoors, put labels on experiments that could be poisonous and try not to flush pieces of carcasses down their drain after finishing with them. His brother could be made to heel when the things one asked of him where small and inconsequential. No bother really, just inconveniences.  
But to be told what to do when larger things were at stake. No, that was near impossible.

So for his own sake, Mycroft hoped that John had not tried to go down the road of trying to forbid Sherlock from seeing Magnussen again out of some silly jealousy, as it would only blow up in his own face if he tried something like that.

Magnussen looked at Mycroft intently now, as if expecting him to come forth with an explanation for his brother’s non-appearance. When Mycroft realised that the other man wasn’t offering anything more, unless he made some kind of response, he supressed a sigh and clasped his hands together on the desk in front of him, like a principal addressing a student, patiently but with a hint of overbearing.

“I’m afraid I haven’t the slightest idea what to say to that, Mr Magnussen. Although my brother in my own eyes will always remain the irresponsible little boy I grew up with, he is after all an adult and I have sadly no sway over his decisions. We’re in fact not particularly close, never have been and I’m afraid the chasm is too wide to ever truly mend. Too many childhood resentments and an age gape impossible to overlook. We simply never shared any common interests.”

If he hadn’t been so accomplished with telling this particular lie he would not have added it, Magnussen was a disturbingly well reader of character, he could sense other people’s weaknesses almost as well as Mycroft could and it was a dangerous path to go down and even more so to be caught in a web of lies, especially of this particular character. But it felt necessary to be distancing himself from Sherlock, it wouldn’t serve their purposes if they appeared to be close, it could rouse Magnussen’s suspicions as to the nature of Sherlock’s intentions.

“Yet you opted to take him with you last night, to the banquet?”

“Well, I do try, for our parent’s sake. It’s not that we dislike each other per se, but we have different interests and personalities. I’m not someone who is prone to friendliness on account of a fraternal connection.”

They locked eyes again, Mycroft daring Magnussen to question him, Magnussen scrutinised him closely, looking for any falseness in the story he was being served. 

“What exactly is it that you want from me?” Mycroft finally sighed.

“You brother of course.”

“And as I explained, I can hardly help you with that.”

Magnussen tilted his head a little bit to the side, as if assessing Mycroft carefully.

“Oh, but I think you do. If you really think about it.”

Ignoring the way Magnussen slithered around the topic of Sherlock with such obvious determination, Mycroft steadfastly kept his point of view.

“My brother is a person who is not used to being told what to do. If he decided that he didn’t want to meet you for lunch, there is nothing you nor I could have done to change his mind. Maybe it was just a whim, maybe he simply forgot or maybe....well...”

“A _whim_?”

“Oh, he’s ignored far more important things than neglecting to show up for a lunch date. Did he actually reply that he was going to attend?”

Magnussen, for the first time, lost his self-confidence a little, blinking in confusion.

“No. I just assumed...”  
“There is your problem then,” Mycroft interrupted him. “When dealing with Sherlock, don’t make any assumptions, because you will soon be bereft of them.”

Magnussen contemplated him for a minute in silence. Then, as if deciding to try a different tactic, a shifting went over his features and the habitual smirk was back.

“I was sorry to hear about Purcell’s early demise. I was told it was some sort of cardiac arrest?” he said, all polite airiness again and mentally Mycroft grinded his teeth at the utter cheek of this man. They both knew that wasn’t the truth.

But swallowing down any ire that threatened to manifest itself in his features, Mycroft took on the politician’s role that he had cultivated ever since taking his first steps towards the career he had built for himself. Sherlock absolutely hated this side of him, said it made him resemble a smarmy toad and he had objected to the mannerisms even more when they were younger. But in Mycroft’s world, this act was a necessity.

“Purcell did indeed suddenly fall prey to his body failing him. It was most unfortunate. I will pass on your condolences to his wife when next seeing her.”

Mycroft would of course never meet Mrs Purcell, he had only seen her briefly at the funeral and they did not know each other. But it would do well for Magnussen to contemplate what wreckage he left behind with his actions. Not that it was likely he would care.

“Please do,” Magnussen said casually. “It is always such a shame when a competent man in such a high position suddenly is gone. It leaves a void, I’m sure. Luckily there are other competent men to take his place, wouldn’t you agree, Mr Holmes?”

It was a threat of course and for less than a second the idea of Magnussen having anything on him made Mycroft’s head actually feel dizzy, although he outwardly remained as impassive as ever. If Magnussen had something, what could it be and was there a way out of it?  
Mycroft was pretty sure a monetary transaction would not suffice in his case. 

Then it hit him, as perplexing as it was, that Magnussen might perhaps not go for the power and influence Mycroft was in possession of, but instead something more personal. 

Sherlock.

It was confirmed less than a second later when Magnussen said, the slightest hint of glee to his voice:

“Perhaps you could bring forward my regards to your brother as well?”

With an icy stare Mycroft answered:

“Anything in particular you would like me to convey?”

A grin began to spread across Magnussen’s face, a spectacularly unappealing one.

“I‘ll spare you the details. It wouldn’t be prudent to tell a man what I would like to do with his little brother. But please tell him that it would please me to invite him to dinner. Tonight.”

Mycroft thought of the vault and how the ruination of it might save a lot of people, himself included. If there was anyone able to locate it, it would be Sherlock, and Magnussen’s interest in him was a blessing in disguise that should be used. 

But why did it feel like he was doling out his brother’s assets to a veritable predator, the very idea of sending Sherlock into the clutches of this man once again, made his stomach churn in discomfort. 

It was actually surprising that he felt this strongly about it.  
Mycroft never dealt with the shadier aspects of the work he did, what needed to be done to generate a good result was always his only focus and that stance had never failed him. And Sherlock could take care of himself of course. But still...

If he only knew what, if anything, Magnussen had on him.  
He could better analyse the risks and benefits of continuing with this if he just had an inkling of what sort of threat, if any, hanged over his head. But alas, he lacked that particular information and had to make a decision based on what he knew, and it was that Magnussen had a temporary weakness that happened to be Mycroft’s brother and such an opportunity was too good to let up. 

So reluctantly he nodded and said:

“I’ll make sure to pass on your message, Mr Magnussen.” 

Content with this, Magnussen left, and Mycroft quickly picked up his phone, this time not caring for any issues regarding pride and childish stubbornness, both calling as well as texting his brother to get in touch with him this very instant.

*********** 

When Sherlock finally came sauntering back to Mycroft, it was late in the afternoon and whatever sympathy, worry and urge to see him that Mycroft had harboured earlier was far gone. By now, he was angry and felt a strong wish to smack his brother across the cheek for having kept him waiting when the situation was as delicate as it was.

“Where have you been?!”

As always, Sherlock could be relied on to be an utter pain in the arse.

“Why does it matter? You made it clear this morning that my actions were not up to your standard. So I decided to focus on my own personal and far more interesting investigation instead.”

Ignoring what it was his brother had been investigating, Mycroft cut straight to the point.

“Magnussen came to visit. He was not pleased that you neglected to show up for lunch.”

Sherlock shrugged as if it was inconsequential to him how Magnussen felt about anything. It probably was.

“I never told him that I would.”

“As I did tell him. Still, he was very displeased. And he expects a better result next time. Tonight, in fact. There was mention of a dinner.”

“How tedious. “

Mycroft sighed in exasperation.

“What purpose will a refusal serve? We need to keep looking for that vault of his. You can hardly do that if not continuing to be in his company, however unpleasant I understand it to be, having barely made it past a casual encounter with the man myself.”

Sherlock shook his head disapprovingly, as if Mycroft was suggesting something ridiculous.

“A dinner will hardly give me the opportunity to go off looking for something he probably has hidden rather well. I think, if you still insist that we continue with this plan, that driving him a bit desperate is a far better option.”

“Meaning?”

“That he got a little sneak peak of the entertainment to be had the other night and now I withdraw it, which will result in him becoming increasingly eager to see what it is that he’s missing out on. And a person with his main focus turned in one direction is bound to stop paying attention to all the other diversions that surrounds him. We need to rile him up a little bit.”

“Just don’t forget that you’re not actually offering him any “entertainment” as you so eloquently put it. He needs to think that you are, but there will of course be none of that on offer. Keep that in mind,” Mycroft said in a warning tone.

Sherlock gave one of his histrionic sighs, accompanied with an eyeroll so dramatic it threatened to completely turn his eyes to the back of his skull.

“Stop treating me like I’m an amateur, Mycroft. You of all people should know I’m the expert in the art of making promises never to be kept.”

Mycroft rose from his chair to give himself some ample space to pace the room. He didn’t like the tone his brother had employed at the moment. Despite thinking that he was some sort of expert in the art of fraud and deceit, he had no idea what Magnussen was actually capable of.  
To him, this was more like a game than a matter of national importance. If playing too hazardously, who knew what consequences there could be?

Yes and that’s what worries me,” he finally said. 

Naturally Sherlock wasn’t interested in listening to any misgivings. 

“Don’t bother, as there is really no need to. I know what I’m doing. You see, behind every powerful man, there is someone infinitely more cleaver who knows exactly what buttons to push to yield the desirable result.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows in mock surprise.

“Really? I wasn’t aware.”

“Well, we can’t all be experts, can we.”

Mycroft snorted at this.

“You know, you’re too cocky for you own good sometimes.”

“Only sometimes?” Sherlock replied and Mycroft gave him a steely glare.

“I have a huge wish to give you a good old spanking, just to teach you some manners. It’s a huge disservice that the principal of physical disciplinary methods was no longer an option when you went to school. Or maybe it would only have encouraged you further, I’m still indecisive on that one.”

A smile broke out and completely changed Sherlock’s otherwise usually hard and angled features. It made him look like a little boy for a second, as if someone else was momentarily in possession of his face. It was rare that Sherlock actually smiled a genuine smile, he usually rather smirked or made one of those sardonic grins that made him seem world-weary well beyond his years.

“It rather depends on the one doling out the punishment I think,” he said cheekily, the hint of mirth in his eyes. 

Mycroft pursed his lips at that. 

He wasn’t especially interested in what sort of sexual kinks his brother got up to in the bedroom with his loyal army doctor. Deciding to change the topic quickly, before Sherlock decided to tell him even more, Mycroft turned away and walked a few paces to put some well-deserved distance between them.

“So what is it you suggest that we do with him? If you don’t show up, he’s bound to come looking for you. I don’t want him here, or coming to my house, it’s too intrusive. Neither do I want him coming to look for you at Baker Street and realise that he has a serious contender in Doctor Watson. Nothing puts a dampener on things quite like ending up face to face with a boyfriend. I’m not even sure it’s such a good idea to avoid him the way you suggest. It might aggravate him further, push him into making rash decisions.”

“So your suggestion is to continue to pimp me out to him instead, with you holding the reins?”

“You make it seem so sordid. It’s for a good cause, Sherlock.”

Sherlock snorted and twisted away, the moment for cheekiness was over.

“What a good Samaritan you are, Mycroft, always thinking of others.”

“Not others brother dear, just you and me.”

“It’s not _me_ he’s after when it comes to the blackmail. Besides, I’m far more interested in his guest.”

“That you might be, but your focus is to be on Magnussen. I’m not telling you again, Sherlock.”

Sherlock gave Mycroft an incredulous look, half amused but at the same time perplexed.

“You really think you control me, do you?”

“I don’t think. I _know_. As much as anyone can.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose in a challenge and before Mycroft had the chance to fully grasp the situation, his little brother had stepped up to him, crossing the line of personal space so much that their noses almost touched. Feeling uncomfortable with this much proximity, Mycroft couldn’t help but step away from the intrusion, involuntarily backing into the chair that was behind him, the unbalance causing him to gracelessly seat himself down in it with a soft thud. 

Even if Mycroft was taller and weighed significantly more, being an intimidating person himself when he chose to be, he wasn’t a fighter the way his brother was and not nearly as unpredictable. He had never bothered with boxing, fencing or martial arts, all of which Sherlock excelled at, and even if he dealt with mind games and stratagems on a regular basis, no one deceived like his little brother, causing him to back away whenever Sherlock stepped up. 

His brother’s lips came close to Mycroft’s ear, his breath ghosting against the skin in a way that made the hairs on his neck stand up, as his brother whispered: 

“Sure about that?”

Then, as quickly as he had made his initial move of intimidation, Sherlock backed away from Mycroft who was still slumped in his chair, and turned his back on him.

“I’ll let you know what I decide to do about Magnussen. You’re officially not in charge anymore.”

And with those parting words, he walked out of the room, leaving Mycroft feeling like a part of his dignity had just followed Sherlock out through the door.

*********** 

Back at Baker Street John had managed to calm down a little from this morning’s argument.

Maybe he had exaggerated a little bit. It had not completely been Sherlock’s fault if Magnussen had decided to put his filthy mind into wandering hands. 

John could obviously see the allure.  
Sherlock had looked particularly dashing in his nicely fitted suit, with his curls tamed and acting particularly charming. It had all been part of the plan of course, his mission had after all been to entice Magnussen enough to weaken his guard.  
And so far, John was in agreement, however reluctantly. 

But it was the flippancy at which Sherlock displayed how easy he found faking interest in someone who clearly fancied him that had actually grated on John’s nerves. 

Not that he felt sorry for Magnussen, John knew enough to think of him as despicable.  
But if it was so easy to turn on the charm and the pretended affection, who knew how much of Sherlock’s fondness for John was the genuine thing and not just a ploy to keep him by his side, exploiting his love as a means of gaining control over him? As long as John loved Sherlock and desired him, adored him even, he wasn’t going anywhere and Sherlock could keep his trustful companion and never worry about John leaving.  
But was it genuinely felt or was it part of an act, much like the game he entertained with Magnussen?

When Sherlock returned home in the afternoon, John wasn’t particularly angry anymore, but he still nursed his suspicions.

Nonetheless he couldn’t help but ask his friend where he had been all day. Sherlock was still in his half-dressed state and John wondered where he could have spent his time looking like that. Hopefully he hadn’t met with Magnussen looking like he had just stepped out of bed and not bothered with dressing properly. That could easily have sent the wrong kind of signals.

Sherlock disappeared inside his bedroom to grab one of his dressing gowns, the wine-coloured one in silk that usually indicated that Sherlock was going into preparation mode. John had learnt to read Sherlock’s moods a little bit by observing which dressing gown he went for.  
Although a favourite because of the way the colour complemented his pale skin and dark curls, John liked the blue one, but knew that whenever Sherlock wore it, he was in a bored and frantic mood, almost on the verge of driving John to despair himself because of the antics Sherlock got up to when wearing that gown.

But right now, with the wine-coloured one flapping around his legs as he came out of his bedroom again, John could tell that he was far from bored right now.

“Well, I met with Mycroft. We had a little lesson in clarification regarding who’s controlling who. He started talking about archaic punishment methods, like spanking. I informed him that with the right person, a little spanking could actually be quite exciting. I think my point came across quite well.”

John raised his eyebrows at this revelation.  
They had never indulged in any powerplay in the bedroom before and he hadn’t really known that such things would be of any interest to Sherlock. But as he now visualised one of them being in charged of the other, preferably him spanking that lovely bottom of Sherlock’s, he felt a jolt of excitement running through him at the idea. 

“Is that so?” he said, his eyebrows raised in delight.

“Quite so. Wouldn’t you agree?”

John’s eyes fell on Sherlock’s riding crop that was innocently lying among the mess of debris on Sherlock’s desk. He had never touched it before and wondered how it would feel against the palp of his hand. What sort of noises it could elicit out of Sherlock. 

Sherlock followed his gaze to the riding crop and a smile spread across his features. 

“How very explicit of you, Captain Watson. Corporal punishment with an item normally used to tame horses with.”

“That’s not what you use it for,” John whispered, as he felt his cock twitch at the mention of his former army title being used by the man he loved.

“Indeed not.”

Sherlock stepped over to his desk and picked it up, weighing it in his hand. 

Then he stepped up to John and pointed it at him.

“You think you could handle this adequately, Captain?”

John made a grab for it, too eagerly, and he naturally missed as Sherlock quickly pulled it out of reach.

Sherlock tutted at this.

“So eager for it, aren’t you? Just dying to teach me who’s the boss around here. Who the one with control is.”

John narrowed his eyes for a second before he made a charging movement towards Sherlock who nimbly danced away.  
John landed against the desk instead and felt how his hip hit against the hard edge of the table.

As he turned around, he found Sherlock standing just behind him, so close John could feel the heat emanating from his body. There was a glint of excitement in his eyes.

With deft fingers he reached forward to undo John’s buttons on his trousers, not even bothering with the rest of the clothes, just going straight for the target like a missile on a straight trajectory. John, still slightly unprepared for the unexpected turn of events, felt himself harden embarrassingly fast, his eyes fixed on Sherlock who looked at him with a combination of cheekiness and disobedience, not even once glancing down to see what his hand was doing, making a short procedure of John’s helpless cock. 

He felt himself buckle up against the movement of Sherlock’s fingers very skilfully running up and down his member while the other one hand was squeezing his testicles with enough pressure to send a pooling desire from John’s abdomen towards his more intimate regions, accompanied with an undignified moan that slipped his mouth despite the struggle to not lose control. 

He had been in the army, for God’s sake! A bratty flatmate five years his junior should not be a challenge!

But it was doomed of course, his body treacherously betrayed him as if he had no say on the matter and it didn’t take long before he, heavily panting, came all over Sherlock’s hand, his eyes scrunched together to keep out the sight of his friend’s gloating face.

“You see, John, I think you’re mistaken about the one in control here, just like Mycroft was. But it’s quite interesting how you both think it ought to be you. Glad to be able to point out the difference between fact and fantasy.”

And with that he removed his hands from the mess that John had managed to inflict on them as well as over his own trousers, then elegantly he retrieved a handkerchief that was left discarded on his desk and wiped his hands clean before he let it fall to the floor, not offering it to John who remained standing uncomfortably damp and cold between his legs.


	5. Baiting

The evening came and went, and Sherlock remained comfortably sitting in front of his microscope in that part of the kitchen that was assigned to him and his experiments. As a chemistry graduate he had argued the need of a personal lab and even if John wasn’t particularly pleased about it, he had unfortunately not managed to persuade Sherlock into looking at the kitchen as a place for eating and cooking and, as long as he didn’t do any experiments that were flammable, dangerous or foul-smelling, he had given up the war over the kitchen space far more easily than he would ever admit to. Sherlock had managed to stick to the rules fairly well and had only broken the ban on three occasions so far. 

As expected, Magnussen did not appreciate being stood up and at a quarter to ten Sherlock’s phone suddenly started ringing.

With a quick glance at the display Sherlock put it away again.

“He has managed to get my number apparently.”

John who was seated in front of the telly, trying to focus on a decent documentary about the cold war, stared at him while processing this information.

It shouldn’t really have surprised him. Magnussen dealt with information, if he wanted to know something, he made sure to get it. And Sherlock was a normal civilian, his number wasn’t classified the way Mycroft’s was for example, the number was even posted on that website Sherlock occasionally decided to dedicate his time to. So it had probably not been too difficult to attain it, even if he found it slightly laughable picturing Magnussen sitting in front of his computer looking at a website that prided itself with a thesis on 243 different types of tobacco ash. Even John, who loved Sherlock dearly, had not made it past the first ten categories.

“Aren’t you going to answer it?” he asked when the phone went off yet again.

“No.”

“But we don’t want to annoy him too much. This is bordering on rude, Sherlock.”

“Well, that’s who I am, isn’t it?”

John sighed and pinched his nose in exasperation. He sometimes wondered how Mycroft had survived a childhood that consisted of this, 24 hours a day. Then he pictured what Mycroft must actually have been as a child and realised that it was difficult to say who had suffered the most.

“He doesn’t know that! To him you are a...a ...well, I don’t know exactly what sort of persona you sold to him, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t your usual rude self, or he wouldn’t be this eager.”

Sherlock gave him a crooked smile without looking up.

“It worked on you, didn’t it?”

“Only because beggars can’t be choosers.”

“Just relax, John and leave this to me.”

The phone kept ringing, and eventually Sherlock strode up to retrieve it from where he had thrown it carelessly on the sofa and with swift fingers, he silenced it. 

“How many calls is it now?” John asked from his chair, still stubbornly pretending to be focused on the documentary but suspecting that he wasn’t fooling anyone, too tense to truly enjoy it. This situation didn’t sit well with him and he wasn’t completely sure Sherlock knew what he was doing after all.

Sherlock, who had now turned his attention to his laptop next to the microscope instead, simply shrugged.

“I don’t know, it’s not so riveting that I’ve felt the need to count them.”

John rose from his chair and walked over to the sofa and picked the phone up, squinted at the screen, to discern the amount of unanswered calls.

“22,” he concluded. “He’s very eager.”

Sherlock didn’t answer, too engrossed in something he was reading on the screen. 

“Why is that, do you think?” John persisted.

Still no reply and he couldn’t discern if that was telling or if Sherlock actually had his thoughts on something else. With Sherlock one never truly knew.

Not willing to drop the subject, feeling as if Sherlock was treating it too lightly, John stepped up to him.

“It’s rather extreme, considering the kind of man Magnussen is. It’s frankly well beyond keen. Almost desperate. No change that, it’s most certainly desperate.”

Sherlock’s eyes were still glued to the screen and John stared at his friend as if trying to drill a hole inside his head. A flutter of nervousness made itself known to him, and he wasn’t completely sure it had to do with Sherlock’s plan of evading Magnussen, even if that was also a cause for concern. No, it was the fact that Magnussen displayed this kind of eagerness to get in contact with Sherlock that worried him. Because what on earth could have warranted this kind of almost obsessive response? What exactly was it that the two of them had gotten up to last night?

John had made it abundantly clear that there was not to be any real sexual transactions made between them and even if he had reluctantly acknowledged that there was probably going to be some sort of advance made from Magnussen, as had indeed been confirmed by Sherlock afterwards, he would not tolerate anything beyond a hand on a thigh or a kiss on a cheek, all very wholesome and on the right side of orderly.

He kept looking at Sherlock who studiously looked at his computer. 

But before he had the opportunity open his mouth to express his misgivings in a way that would actually make the other man listen for once, Sherlock snapped his head up in an exasperated gesture, accompanied by an impatient sigh.

“You’re normally the very epitome of patience, why can’t that be the case now? I can practically hear your thoughts going around in an insipid circle clouded with, what my brother with utter disdain would call _emotions_. May I remind you that you yourself were the one who said we needed to help Mycroft with his problems from the very beginning, against my wishes. And now you’re suddenly beginning to worry?”

John pursed his lips into a thin line and narrowed his eyes at Sherlock who so clearly was doing his outmost to provoke him by appearing so casual about it all.

“I don’t worry, I’m merely suspicious about certain aspects of this whole arrangement.”

“And so your dirty mind naturally begins to wander.”

John stepped even closer and their eyes met, both stubbornly sure of their own right in this matter, Sherlock even going so far as to throw in some arrogance. But John was not willing to yield.

“And is there cause for my concern?” he asked, the hint of a threat in his voice. That had unfortunately seldom worked on his friend before. Sherlock either found his army voice sexually enticing or, sometimes, a bit challenging. When it didn’t result in them ending up in bed together, it always seemed to make Sherlock even more set upon disobeying John further.

“If you need to ask, then you have forfeited the right to know.”

John felt the discreet tingle in his fingers out of a desire to smack his friend over the head for his insolence, but there was a fear that such actions would actually provoke Sherlock into doing something irrational out of pure spite. 

Even if there was a risk that things had been taken too far with Magnussen already, Sherlock in retaliation mode meant that there was always a next level for him to bring the situation to and inwardly John cursed his own incapability of controlling the other man. It had always been the biggest flaw in their relationship, John’s knowledge that Sherlock was as fickle as mercury and that he was unable to do anything about it. 

He knew that Sherlock loved him and he certainly knew how much he loved Sherlock, but the uncertainty of his friend’s moods and ideas was sometimes proving too difficult for a man like himself who liked things to be orderly and controllable, normal and comforting.  
He liked the threat of danger occasionally, the rush of the chase that made his adrenaline spike through the roof. But when he wasn’t chasing criminals with Sherlock, he longed for the simple life where he could cuddle with his boyfriend on the sofa, lazy Sunday mornings in bed, cooking together perhaps. 

He had long ago realised that none of this might actually be achievable with Sherlock but did that mean he had to accept everything being in a constant turmoil in their life?

Sensing that he was not going to get anything more out of Sherlock tonight, he decided to remove himself from the temptation of doing anything rash like starting a fight, and therefor he turned on his heal and left.  
In the doorway, he stopped for a second to see if his exit would elicit some sort of reaction from the other man, but none came, so he stalked up the stairs up to his own bedroom and began to prepare himself for some much needed sleep. He didn’t expect to get any company tonight.

The next morning when he woke, Sherlock was gone. His laptop as well as the microscope, still with a slide inside it, remained where he had left them, as if he had only left for a moment, but John could deduce from a number of other signs in the room that Sherlock had not been there for at least a couple of hours. Perhaps he had left as soon as John had fallen asleep. 

To his further annoyance, he noticed that Sherlock hadn’t brought his phone with him, as it was still left where he had last seen it, discarded on the sofa.

He went over and picked it up. 32 missed calls. No texts. 

The left-behind phone meant that there was no way for Magnussen to reach Sherlock.  
But more importantly it meant that John couldn’t do so either. Unless he turned to Mycroft for help. That man had infinitely more resources at his disposal of course, and wasn’t that a tempting thought?

But no. He was far too annoyed with Sherlock at the moment to resort to childishness. If he had run off to sulk somewhere, let him be then, John had far more important things to do.

The suspicion that it was in fact he himself who had run off sulking to his room last night was a thought he didn’t like to acknowledge, so therefore, he didn’t.

*********** 

Playing hard to get had its benefits, it allowed him time to focus on other, far more interesting things than Magnussen.  
But despite extensive research, Sherlock found himself unable to identify the man he had met the other night and reluctantly he came to the conclusion that if he wanted to get anywhere with his investigations, he would be forced to get in contact with Magnussen sooner rather than later. If he also managed to solve Mycroft’s little problem with the vault simultaneously, it would only serve him even better.

But he wasn’t going to do it the conventional way by just answering his phone and engage in a boring conversation with a man that had pawed all over him just the other night, accepting his suggestions of wining and dining before being brought back to his flat. No, he was going to do this in a different way.

He knew where Magnussen worked of course, as Mycroft had so kindly filled him in. 

It would be very bold indeed to just step up and demand entrance, as if he had the right. The guards weren’t going to believe their eyes if he did that, the security in such a place was bound to be extensive. 

But no, the idea Sherlock had in mind was something completely different. 

When dealing with someone like Magnussen, it needed to be more memorable than a meeting at his office. Office meetings were more his brother’s area, Sherlock worked under different circumstances and he knew just what to do to keep Magnussen’s interest piqued. Something to truly burn an image into the retinas of those shark-like eyes. 

Mycroft would certainly not approve but right now, did it matter?  
Mycroft was always so ridiculously rational and sometimes rational was boring when there were other ways to go about things.  
Besides, he was partly doing this for Mycroft anyway, even if he himself couldn’t be bothered with caring about politics and tarnished reputations. 

Granted, he was also doing this to get a closer look at the man that had been with Magnussen the other night, but as Mycroft had made it clear that he wasn’t interested in pursuing any other targets right now, it was something Sherlock was going to keep to himself.

John on the other hand was a bigger issue.

Sherlock appreciated what they had and would never intentionally do anything to jeopardise their relationship.  
But there were always so many unwritten rules that he had no clue even existed before he had managed to break them and every time it happened he could see that little hint of disappointment in John’s eyes. 

He had once asked if John couldn’t make a list of the things that was undesirable when being in a relationship, he had even intended to actually to give it glance to see if it would be utterly preposterous or actually doable, but John had only replied that if he ever got started penning down such a list, he would still be at it come Christmas. 

And those were only the ordinary, everyday kind of things they so often disagreed on.  
Like the constant lack of milk in the house and who needed it for what purpose, the “clutter” as John chose to referr to Sherlock’s very important things that was lying about all over the flat, the rules of what to preserve in the fridge and how such things should be labelled when considered unhygienic or even straight out hazardous, John’s insistence of watching every stupid show ever made on the telly when he could be listening to Sherlock talk, practise the violin or simply sitting there, waiting for a case, keeping Sherlock company in silence, suffering through the boredom of the lack of work to do. 

These were constant issues that had existed even before they became a couple and in Sherlock’s eyes he never understood how they still remained unsolved after such a long period of time.

These things were difficult to navigate at the best of times. The things Sherlock was not allowed to do when it came to cases was an even trickier path to go down. 

Trying to seduce Magnussen into revealing his vault had been one of those grey areas where Sherlock had realised, before John did, that jealousy would rear its ugly head despite reassurances that it wouldn’t. Sherlock had tried warning him that trying to keep things at such an innocent level as Mycroft had offered, would be an impossibility, and once John had realised this, he was all nerves and tension whenever the topic of Magnussen came up. 

The thing Sherlock was now about to do would definitely fall under the category of not acceptable in John’s book. But as he and Mycroft had so adamantly insisted that he take this case, they would be forced to realise that Sherlock had his own way of doing things. That was after all why he was so successful at what he did. 

Playing coy was a good trick and served its purpose, Magnussen was clearly hooked and tugging at the line Sherlock had thrown him, but now was the time to take the next step, wet the so called appetite a little more seriously and if Sherlock knew anything about men so tightly in control of themselves it positively whitened their knuckles, it was that when they finally did began to unravel, it was quite the sight to behold and it opened them up for vulnerability .  
Experience dealing with Mycroft over the years had taught him as much and even if this repugnant man was nothing like his brother otherwise, the matter of remaining in comand of things, still put them in the same category of emotionally stumped men with far too much power and need of omnipotent control. 

So instead of going to Magnussen’s office where the man was probably busy looming over his staff as these controlling men tended to do, Sherlock decided to take a cab to the address where they had last been together. 

As the cab was pulling up at the desired destination, he watched through the window as they came to a stop, letting his eyes take in the old prominent building that normally housed Magnussen whenever he was in town. Then he steeled himself and payed the driver before he brazenly stepped up front to ring the doorbell.

The nervous-looking woman who opened the door had not been present the other night and had no idea who Sherlock was, so with a confused look in her eyes she began to explain that the master of the house was not at home and that she couldn’t let anyone in without his specific order to do so.

Sherlock paid not attention to her protestations, actually relieved about her petite and quite fragile appearance. It would have been so tiresome to start this visit by fighting a muscular bodyguard. He would still have done it, but this was far more easy.

“I think you’ll end up in more trouble if you actually reject me ,” he replied airily as he made his way past her and began to head up the stairs where he remembered that the living room had been.

“But Sir! You can’t just...” he heard the woman call out behind his back before tuning her out.

She would call security soon enough and they in turn would contact Magnussen and that suited him fine. It would leave him a few minutes to look for that precious vault Mycroft was harping on about, but also to prepare himself for what he wanted Magnussen to be presented with.

A quick search of the living room revealed nothing resembling a vault though, he would have remembered it of course as that had been his main mission after all and despite what Mycroft claimed, he hadn’t lost focus just because something infinitely more interesting had been presented to him. But this time he had a better opportunity to look closer.

He took a quick look inside the room next to the living room as well. 

It appeared to be some sort of office and would surely have been a better option for keeping secrets than the living room.  
Mycroft always had most of his secrets kept in his office after all. The private one with the hidden safe behind the mirror that Sherlock had known the combination to for over a year now. 

It had contained nothing but utterly boring content of no interest to him and therefor he had not bothered with looking inside it again since first breaking into it. Mycroft was apparently very boring when it came to things like that. Naturally his hidden safe _would_ be full of stuffy documents and files instead of incriminating evidence of a life spent in depravity and wickedness. Not so much as a nude photo of the Queen or 24 bars of pure gold, a fake ID or the answer to the mystery of Stonehenge written down on a piece of paper. Sherlock had been deeply disappointed.

When presented with that observation during dinner one evening at The Diogenes, Mycroft had not reacted with the usual exasperation over his little brother breaching his privacy by breaking into his hidden safe, but instead a small smile had briefly, next to non-existent, flashed across his features before he had given Sherlock one of those infuriating know-it-all looks over the rim of his wine glass. 

“How do you know that is the safe where my truly secrets possessions are being kept?” he had asked and with Mycroft it was difficult to tell if he was pulling his leg or actually indicating that Sherlock was clueless on the subject. It had been highly infuriating.

Sherlock had discreetly looked for a second safe of course, discreetly because he didn’t want to endure the ridicule of being called easily duped if it had just been a ploy. But so far he had not managed to find one in his brother’s house, in his office or at the family estate. He was still indecisive if one actually existed. Despite the boring content, the documents he had paged through had been important after all, and with Mycroft you just never knew. 

Magnussen was surely not such a great enigma once you stuck your teeth into him, but right now Sherlock didn’t know sufficiently about the man to tell all his secrets and therefore a quick search of his private office was a necessity. His internal clock was already ticking away, the woman downstairs had surely called security by now and they in turn had probably decided to call Magnussen, so he didn’t have much time.

Fortunately for him, this office was one of those Scandinavian designer rooms where everything was very sparse and didn’t offer a lot of good hiding places, so he managed to sweep it quickly enough before stepping back into the living room just in time for the woman to come in and give him a disapproving glare while she kept a phone firmly to her ear.

“Tallish. Of lithe build. Dark hair. Curly. Late twenties to early thirties, perhaps a little younger,” she said while assessing him critically. 

Sherlock held back a snort.  
People were rubbish at descriptions, never paying enough attention to detail. 

Had he been the one to describe himself he would have added blue-green eyes that shifted in light on account of sectoral heterochromia, a dark navy -coloured Hart’s and Spencer suit from last year’s spring collection, a BMI of 17,5 which put him in the underweight side of the scale (while Mycroft with his 27 was instead stubbornly planted in the slightly overweight section, as Sherlock had recently discovered when coming across his brother’s medical records while using John’s doctor’s ID for a case, another one of those things he was not allowed to do because of a case according to John ). The hair wasn’t just dark, it was black with a tone of burnt auburn that was made visible when standing in direct sunlight (admittedly he wasn’t doing that right now, but still, she should have added a little more detail to his hair than simply calling it dark!) and his shoes were Yves Saint Laurent size 12. Cheek bones, plush lips, that his eyes were a little too wide apart than average and his nose was small and slightly retroussé, unlike Mycroft who had a formidable large beak-like nose, much to his own secret chagrin. All of this could all have added more specific detail to an otherwise lousy description. On the other hand, he knew that what she said would be enough for Magnussen to figure out who it was that had invaded his home. 

And granted, his own habit of comparing himself to Mycroft was not something other people would do if not faced with the two of them together, standing next to each other. But it was something Sherlock had always used as an inner measuring block when trying to describe himself, since Mycroft had after all been the first person he had actively scrutinized as a child and still held as some sort of model of comparison out of sheer brotherly habit. 

As expected, her shift in tone as well as demeanour changed from nervously annoyed to stunned and unsure.

“But, Sir...” she began, and Sherlock could imagine Magnussen cutting her off despite trying to not pay her any attention. “Very well, Sir. I’ll tell him,” she resumed meekly and then the conversation was over.

Sherlock was already busy trying to figure out how to best do what he was about to do and no longer cared about her presence as she had completed her part of his plan, however unknowingly. But in the background he still registered that she was talking. Something about Magnussen being on his way apparently.

“I know,” he waived her off and after a minute of silent hesitation she was gone, both metaphorically as well as physically. If she slammed the door behind her he didn’t notice it.

Absentmindedly he began to unbutton his shirt while letting his eyes roam the room. 

The trick would indeed be to get Magnussen to spill some information as well as keep him hooked and eager, without Sherlock having to give him anything he wasn’t prepared to truly offer. There was after all only so much he was willing to do, even for his brother, and actually sleeping with Magnussen was not one of those things.

From the time Sherlock had spent with the blackmailer the other night, he had early on deduced that the man was a tormentor of sorts who thrived in evoking humiliation and punishment and had a thing for the more unconventional sexual transactions than merely sleeping with young men.  
But Sherlock was not one for playing the submissive part, not even for pretend, and despite considering the occasional power play with John back at home, he wasn’t prepared to adapt a role that would leave him vulnerable in the hands of Magnussen. 

But at the same time, the man’s lust needed to be kept lingering, and therefor Sherlock decided to play things a little risqué, something Mycroft and John would certainly disapprove of, but on the other hand, Mycroft had sorely miscalculated what Magnussen was truly about and John had not been aware of his true nature at all. 

Carefully folding his coat, jacket and shirt in a neat pile on the floor, Sherlock removed the belt he had chosen to wear for this particular occasion. He usually never wore belts, his trousers were made to fit him impeccably so there was no real need for him to wear one, but for this occasion, it had been a necessary addition to his outfit.

Then he brought out a pair of cufflinks, pulled the belt through them before hoisting the loop loop over a chain ornament hanging from the ceiling, low enough for him to reach if climbing the back of a sofa. Observing it the other night had brought this idea to his mind last night when contemplating how to proceed with Magnussen. He had actually touched upon the notion that this very peculiar design was something that unintentionally reflected Magnussen’s sexual kinks in a discreet and probably very expensive way without giving that clue away to those who didn’t know what to look for. 

He could practically hear Mycroft’s voice tutting with disapproval.

_Have you no shame little brother, no moral compass whatsoever in that depraved body of yours?..._

But they both knew the answer to that question. 

Sherlock felt no moral ambiguities when it came to anything, morals and good manners where for simpletons and boring people.  
It was after all why he had so easily seduced John when he had realised what sort of feelings his flatmate had kept from him. If it had been up to John, they would still be ogling each other when they thought the other wasn’t looking. It had frankly been tiresome and a huge waste of time when there were other, more delightful things to be done.

Yet he could still picture John’s face and it looked positively ill despite the fact that the real John had no idea what Sherlock was up to. Maybe Sherlock had actually developed a conscience somewhere along the line despite his claims of the opposite? 

As far as Mycroft was concerned, he didn’t know about this either, but he at least would be more displeased than actually shocked, having experienced what Sherlock was actually capable of sometimes. 

As he positioned himself to wait for Magnussen to arrive, Sherlock began thinking about the assignment his brother had given him and the supposed existence of this mythical vault that Magnussen used to store all his blackmailing material. It wasn’t likely to be kept in this house, whatever Mycroft hoped for, the security of this flat was frankly atrocious and no one with anything of value, despite a good safe and a hiding place, would keep anything of that importance unguarded. 

So if Sherlock wanted access to it, he needed to get invited to the actual house, Appledore. Or if that failed, his office. For now it seemed far simpler gaining some information about that mysterious guest from the other night and that would have to be his mission today.


	6. Scrutiny

When he heard steps approaching outside, he estimated that less than twenty minutes had passed. 

Granted, Magnussen’s office wasn’t too far away, but taking into calculation the London traffic and transportation issues, it was impressive and also very telling. Someone was eager.

That it was Magnussen approaching was easy to tell as Sherlock recognised the man’s soft steps, now slightly hurried in pace but not too much, he was clearly trying to contain himself while simultaneously excited. 

And he was alone. 

Good. Not that it mattered, an audience would not have made any difference, but this was after all for Magnussen’s benefit and it felt befitting that he was the only one witnessing this.

Nimbly Sherlock jumped up on the back of the sofa once more, put the cuffs around his wrists and then let go of the solid surface from beneath his feet by pushing away from the sofa, now dangling in free air by his wrists, naked from the waist up, his trouser hanging low on his hips, the fist button unopened enticingly.

The cuffs had been discreetly lined with a soft material to prevent chafing and he had put his body through tougher strains than hanging by the wrists, even if his arms were probably going to feel tender afterwards. He was as ready as he could be.

He could imagine just what sort of image he was projecting right now and if he had made the right calculation this was exactly the sort of allure needed to hook Magnussen more firmly to the bait. Everything else up to this moment had been normal interaction with a hint of flirtation, more pure and proper than anything else. Now Sherlock was showing him the promise of another side.

When the door opened there was an audible gasp heard. He could see Magnussen’s eyes widen behind those titanium-rimmed glasses and then a glimmer in them that told Sherlock that he had hit the right button.

Magnussen remained by the door for a moment to take in the view presented to him. Then a predatory smile broke out upon his lips and his tongue slowly emerged to wet his upper lip in an obvious display of appreciation before he stepped inside the room and softly closed the door behind him.

He took a few steps closer, his eyes roaming the body in front of him, lingering a few seconds longer on the wrists in the handcuffs, as well as the opened-up button that alluringly still held the trousers in place but was like an invitation to explore what was beneath.

Magnussen was clearly pleased by the combination of entrapment that the handcuffs represented, as well as the fact that this was arranged for him like a present to unwrap. It was as if Sherlock had revealed just enough to indicate that he was willing to take a step further sexually but at the same time had rendered himself literary in the hands of Magnussen as he couldn’t use his own.

“Well, well. I must say you really know how to wet a man’s appetite, Sherlock. This looks very intriguing indeed,” Magnussen smoothly said.

He took the remaining steps into the room until he was standing close enough to reach out and touch if he wanted to. 

Sherlock could feel his gaze take in every detail of his body and it was a novelty being under such scrutiny from a man he knew was more perceptible than most. He wondered if this was what it felt like when he turned his own investigating scrutiny on others, minus the sexual interest of course. 

He wasn’t as ignorant about the sexual desires of others as he sometimes pretended to be, he knew people assessed and appreciated his appearance, usually before he decided to open his mouth and ruin it by speaking. 

John in particular had a very unique way of looking at him when he was feeling aroused. He made Sherlock feel like he was the best thing he had ever seen, a combination of tenderness and raw sexual desire in his eyes, like his mind couldn’t decide if he wanted to rip Sherlock’s clothes off and ravage him on the spot, or more lovingly explore the body he had in front of him, taking his time and savouring the moment. 

It was one of the things Sherlock really appreciated about John, the uncertainty of how he was going to behave when turned on. It could be the undone savagery of pure sex or the gentleness of just being taken care of, slowly bringing them both to completion in due time, and it was always difficult to tell which option John would go for, probably because he didn’t know it himself.

But this, right now, was nothing like John’s way of looking at him when feeling aroused. This was like being vivisected, put under a scalpel and metaphorically being cut open on display and Sherlock tried his best to tamper down the urge to squirm under the other man’s stare. 

This was the desired effect after all, the reaction he had wanted, and squirming and flinching was not a part of the persona he was trying to present.

Magnussen circled him and then he reached out and let his hand touch one of the arms that was stretched above the head, letting the fingers move over the firm muscle beneath the smooth skin in appreciation.

“You present quite the alluring picture.”

The fingers trailed up and down the arm, then continuing down across the chest and then up again to his shoulders. 

Sherlock's face was too high up for Magnussen to reach, despite being quite tall and Sherlock felt gratitude for small favours as he wouldn’t have appreciated being touched there. For some reason the face felt more intimate than the body. The body was just transport, it was easier to detach himself from feeling Magnussen’s damp touch on his torso and arms, whereas the face would have felt like an intrusion. 

But he also realised that the other man would not settle for simply touching a few body parts, despite their nakedness. There were further boundaries to be explored and broken

And as if reading his thoughts, Magnussen made a circular move so he came in front of the sofa and then, as predicted, he climbed upon it to get better access and gain some leverage. 

Then he leaned in towards the small hollow of the throat and stuck his tongue out to lick it. 

It took all of Sherlock’s efforts to supress the wave of repulsion he felt when Magnussen’s tongue made contact with his skin. He could feel the other man’s breath come out in small puffs of moist air while the structure of the tongue felt like a fat leach was sucking at his tender skin. 

To his utter horror it didn’t stop there as the tongue continued to slide down his throat all the way to his chest, across his abdomen, leaving a wet trail in its wake. 

Meanwhile, the fingers did their own journey upwards instead, across the exposed back, first down to the lining of his trousers and the up again all the way to the neck, burying themselves in the curls that lingered there. 

Then they moved downwards once more as his tongue did so as well, both reaching the lining of the trousers, this time the tongue doing an intricate sucking movement at the spot where the unbuttoned area left a little bit of exposed skin on display before disappearing beneath the fabric. 

As Magnussen’s focus was on his own actions, he didn’t notice how Sherlock actually bit the inside of his cheek to prevent his body from reacting the way it spontaneously desired to do. The pain from his own teeth digging into the soft flesh inside his mouth made his body remain calm and not reveal any hidden instincts. 

Just as Magnussen’s tongue swirled around the button and his hands were about to get working on the zipper, there was a knock on the door followed by the voice of the woman Sherlock had met earlier. 

Magnussen ignored it at first, his tongue moving more fervently, long strokes along the skin from the lining of the trousers up to the belly button. But the sound insistently returned a second later, a little firmer this time and a growled out: _what?”_ came through her employer’s clenched teeth.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr Magnussen, but there is a delivery for you, and they need a signature.”

He whipped his head in the direction of the door, clearly enraged by the disturbance.

“So sign it!”

“They insist that it must be the receiver who does it. I tried explaining that you are busy at the moment but the delivery man was very adamant. And apparently it was a pressing matter. “

There was a moment of hesitation from both sides of the door, calculations being made, assessment of the conundrum presented. The importance of the delivery versus the disruption of a situation that must have been strictly ordered to not be interrupted.

Then Magnussen sighed and gave Sherlock a long evaluating look, rationalising that his guest at least would not be able to go anywhere while he left to sign the delivery. 

Or so he thought.

Sherlock had after all decided that there was only so much he was willing to do to get the upper hand in this scenario, and having Magnussen take advantage of him while he hanged helplessly in a pair of handcuffs from his wrists, was not something he was going to participate in. 

So he had planned for this interuption in advance by hiring a member of his homeless network to pose as a fake delivery man that would come knocking on the door in exactly five minutes after Magnussen’s entry of the house. 

He had been instructed to make the particular demand of a personal signature on the delivery, pressing the point of its importance and urgency to force Magnussen to leave the room and give Sherlock enough time to free himself and get out. Accustomed as he was, since childhood, in the practice of getting out of seemingly tricky situations, he had no trouble at all with liberating himself from a bond of his own making, so as soon as the door had closed behind Magnussen’s back, he got to work and once released, he fell effortlessly to the floor, landing on his feet.

Hurriedly he gathered the pile of clothes he so neatly had folded for this occasion specifically and then he headed for the window. 

It didn’t take more than 30 seconds at most to climb out of it, make the jump down to the window pane below and then sprint across the garden at the back of the house. Swiftly he climbed the fence, jumped down on the other side and off he went. 

He put his shirt on while on the move, not bothering with buttoning it up, simply putting the jacket and then the coat on top to cover up before starting off in a sprint to gain further distance between himself and Magnussen’s flat. 

As he was sufficiently sure none of Magnussen’s men would be able to follow his tracks if ordered to do so, he went down the tube and disappeared among the other commuters and tourists that were cluttering up the trains and platforms, now slowing down enough to arrange his clothing more accurately.

He imagined the look on Magnussen’s face as he opened up the parcel that the delivery man had handed him. 

It contained a little note in Sherlock’s own spidery scrawl and he could imagine how Magnussen, after reading the message, would hurry back up to the living room just to see it abandoned and his conquest gone, no trace left behind beyond the note and the curtain billowing in the breeze from the open window.

_“Until next time.”_

Leaning back in his seat on the tube, travelling back to Baker Street, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of giddiness about this latest move. As far as results went, he was not in any way closer to finding the vault or the identity of the mysterious guest. But this had showed Magnussen what sort of person he was, and the man had been more than intrigued, the bait taken and swallowed, want practically glowing in his eyes at the sight he had been presented with. 

This was bound to assure Sherlock a future invitation to Appledore pretty soon. Magnussen was hardly going to resist speeding up the pace after this latest stunt, and once accomplishing an entrance to Appledore, the possibilities where infinitely greater.

As he stormed into his own flat, still high on the success of recent events, throwing his coat across the nearest available surface, he was disappointed to notice that the atmosphere in the room was not as welcoming as he would have hoped. 

The two chairs usually reserved for himself and John were now occupied by his brother as well as a flatmate that looked like thunder in the face, and immediately a spark of annoyance flared up inside of Sherlock at the sight. It felt like he had walked straight into an ambush and the feeling of elation that had accompanied him all the way from Magnussen’s flat quickly dissipated at the sight of the stern look his brother was giving him. 

He couldn't help but snarl at the situation.

“What is _he_ doing he?”

The question was aimed at John as it seemed that the two men in front of him were joined in some sort of conspiracy against him and the explanation for such an occurrence would likely be John as Mycroft never reached out to the doctor when he could very well do things on his own.

“He is here because I asked for his help in tracking you down. As you had so unhelpfully left your phone behind when leaving, I could hardly call and ask you about your whereabouts. “

There was a clear accusatory tone in his voice and Sherlock thought back to how John had behaved last night. 

There had been some undercurrent of tension back then, even if he had not completely realised why that was. It had been related to Magnussen calling Sherlock with such ardour, but why would that trouble John?

He tried to recall the last phrases that had been exchanged between them but frankly struggled, he had been busy preparing for today’s meeting, searching information online while planning ahead. Sherlock vaguely remembered John leaving to go upstairs, but as he had made a call to the man playing the delivery man, no less than 5 minutes later, he hadn’t really focused on John’s whereabouts after that, assuming that he had simply gone to bed. 

Was this one of those unspoken relationship rules where he should have perhaps followed his lover upstairs and asked him if something was the matter? But how was he supposed to do that if he hadn’t even realised that something _had_ been the matter? 

Sometimes this relationship business felt like trying to navigate through quagmire, every other step threatening to give way under his foot. 

He decided to focus on Mycroft instead, out of two evils, the one he knew how to attack was the easier choice.

“I thought I told you yesterday that I am the one in charge of this operation now. There was no need for you to come stomping all the way over here just because John couldn’t reach me for a few hours. That situation is hardly a novelty.”

Mycroft gave him a cold stare, the firm hold of the Malacca handle of his umbrella a sure sign of his annoyance. 

“I am inclined to agree that you are probably right on that account, although I would have hoped that the change in your relationship status would have decreased, if not put a stop to such actions by now.”

Feeling offended that these two were so determined to throw judgement on him when he had done nothing but improved the situation regarding Magnussen, and such news in reality should be a source of enjoyment, not something to be thrown in his face, Sherlock flailed with his arms in exasperation as he began to pace the room in front of them.

“Why would a few hours alone, working on a case you yourself initially assigned to me, mean that I somehow have treated John unfavourably? I left the phone behind because I didn’t need it, not because you two should read it as a sign for you to interfere.”

John interrupted him before he had the chance to continue.

“The fact that he assigned you this case and you now have decided to go ahead on your own, leaving us in the dark, is why we felt it was necessary to step in. I for one am worried that you don’t know what you’re doing regarding Magnussen. He seems more than a little obsessed with you.”

John reached for Sherlock’s phone that sprang to life at his touch, the display showcasing 55 missed calls now, assumingly all from Magnussen. At least something was going according to plan even if these two mother hens weren’t realising it. 

It actually did sting a little that John apparently didn’t think he could handle this business with Magnussen, John who normally always believed in Sherlock’s abilities so loyally. Why did it matter to John if the media mogul was showing signs of obsession with Sherlock, that was rather the point after all? 

“I’m sorry to hear that you have taken a page out of Mycroft’s book and decided that I’m not successful at what I do. Just because I don’t do everything my brother tells me to do, it doesn’t mean that I don’t know what I’m doing. In fact, I’m pretty sure that an invitation to Appledore is very imminent and I hardly need to tell you, Mycroft, that such an invitation increases my chances of finding that vault of yours considerably.”

He had expected some sort of relief or at least a little gratitude at this piece of news but instead he saw John exchanging glances with Mycroft and not so much as a trace of happiness on neither of their faces.

Mycroft was the one who decided to speak eventually, the natural taker of control of every situation and as he turned his eyes to look at his little brother there was a hint of disappointment in them, flashing behind the perpetual coldness. 

“Impressive if that should prove to be the case, and you are certainly right regarding such an invitation improving our chances of success. But a very poignant question remains despite of these new developments...”

John’s head was turned towards Sherlock as well and there was worry in his eyes, mixed with something that looked like....anger?

“...because when you put into perspective Magnussen’s clear obsession with you, as the increasing number of phone calls made to you clearly indicates, and then this new piece of information you give us where he is supposedly now very eager to invite you to his house, it begs the question what it is that you have done to create such a response. And that, little brother, is the reason why John called for me to come here.”

Sherlock continued to look at John while Mycroft kept talking, something uneasy unfurling inside of him as he realised that there anger in John's eyes were a reality now.

In the background Mycroft’s voice droned on.

“Before your arrival here, my intel was informative enough to show me a very interesting clip caught on CCTV where you are seen running half-dressed just a street away from Magnussen’s residence less than an hour ago. A quick check at the other cameras in the area showed you entering his flat half an hour earlier and Magnussen himself arriving some twenty minutes after, rather eagerly getting out of his car. And once again, this begs the question: what _exactly_ is it that you have done to earn yourself an invitation to Appledore?”


	7. Twisting and turning

The lie had been easy to tell, especially as it made that angry glare in John’s eyes disappear.  
It didn’t even require that many details, good lies didn’t have details, Mycroft had taught him that years ago. He had simply omitted the part about the handcuffs, him hanging by the wrists, turning the whole thing into a more innocent version where the reason for his undone shirt had been an accident with spilt water. 

Mycroft had not looked very convinced but if he didn’t believe it, at least he didn’t voice that doubt out loud. 

Before any of the others could beat him to the biggest question mark of the story, him being seen with his shirt still open while walking away from Magnussen's flat, he declared that his hasty escape had been because Magnussen had simply behaved too ardently after seeing the exposure of naked skin. 

Sherlock made a point of painting himself as the victim of some very unwanted attention and how he had decided to remove himself from the scene before something untoward happened. It was technically true, he had removed himself from further advances, it was simply his role as an innocent victim that was questionable.

It didn’t matter, he could see actual relief flood John’s eyes, although not completely happy with events. He chided Sherlock for putting himself in such a position in the first place, especially considering his knowledge of Magnussen and what sort of a man he was. But all and all the situation was more manageable now, John’s mood easily reverted back to a calmer state when that he knew Sherlock hadn’t done anything exceptionally foolish.

The truth would not have resulted in the same sense of relief. 

In fact, Sherlock was pretty certain that if given the true version, a lot of shouting would be happening by now, and the version he had presented them with instead wasn’t too far off the actual truth, just a few details omitted from the narrative and there was really no need to tell them about those.

But even if his brother didn’t say anything, it was clear that he wasn’t as convinced as John was of the validity of Sherlocks’ version.  
As he rose from his chair, his umbrella still in a firm hold in his hand, he asked Sherlock to accompany him downstairs. 

It would have been tempting to just decline. Sherlock had no wish to expose himself to whatever chiding Mycroft had in store for him, but the option, that his brother decided to voice his misgivings in the presence of John was far worse, so reluctantly Sherlock followed him down the stairs, to the front door to send Mycroft off, leaving John in the flat to put the kettle on.

As Sherlock reached for the handle to open the door, Mycroft’s hand shot out and held his wrist in a firm grip, preventing him from doing so.

“That was a nice little performance you did there, Sherlock and for the benefit of your relationship with Doctor Watson and the continuing tranquillity of the household, I chose not to say anything about it in his presence. But now I would like to hear what it was that you _actually_ did with Magnussen when you met him today:”

“I already gave you the answer to that.”

“No, you gave me _an_ answer, I strongly suspect it wasn’t _the_ answer.”

“There is nothing more to tell. I have no new results regarding the vault but I’m confident that once I gain access to Appledore, that will change... “

Mycroft shook his head at this and the grip around the wrist intensified. It was tempting to pull his hand away but that would indicate that this scrutiny bothered him, so Sherlock allowed it despite the actual pain it caused. 

Mycroft remained persistent. 

“I know that there is more to this story than what you’re letting on, Sherlock. You’re forgetting who it was that taught you how to omit the truth in a believable way in the first place, a master can always tell when one of his students is trying to copy his methods.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes when hearing this.

“How very presumptuous of you. Especially as I have nothing to hide.”

“I thought I told you about Magnussen before I sent you in his path, but apparently you weren’t listening very carefully. The man works with blackmail. How do you think his gets hold of his information?”

“Presumably in the same way you do? By spying on people against their wishes. Keeping them under surveillance.”

“Exactly.”

Sherlock snorted at this but Mycroft tugged his wrist so he was forced to take a step forward by following the involuntary movement and their faces came close to one another. 

“I know you think this is all fun and games having someone like Magnussen by a leach of his own bodily urges while you play him like violin, pretending to focus on finding the vault while in reality dragging this out so you can figure out the identity of that mystery guest you for some unfathomable reason think is more worthy of your interest than the blackmailing Magnussen is doing to innocent people in the meantime. The bane of my life is that I _do_ worry about you, my life would have been infinitely easier if that had not been the case. As it is a part of my character entirely out of my own control, and you apparently can’t stop doing stupid things on a regular basis, I guess that situation is never going to change. But for once in your irresponsible life, can you just listen to me, Sherlock? Stop whatever it is you think you’re going to accomplish by taunting Magnussen the way you are doing, because it will backfire eventually. Perhaps not immediately, perhaps you manage to balance this act for a little while longer, lying to John while resuming to lead Magnussen on, but mark my words, it will happen, and by continuing down this path you risk losing more than what you bargained for in the first place.”

They stared at each other. 

Mycroft was rarely this outspoken, not prone to outburst of emotions, and the fact that he had actually combined both physical force as well as a passionate speech, told Sherlock that his brother was rattled by the situation. 

He couldn’t really see why that was though.  
Magnussen might be a cold fish and no doubt he was a terrible person to those who were victims of his blackmailing, but he was hardly a black-hearted criminal of the more dangerous variety. The fact that he was such a victim to his own bodily lust was a sure evidence of a significant weakness in his armour and even if it wasn’t Sherlock’s usual modus operandi, he wasn’t above resorting to exploiting that weakness if it earned him some results. 

But it was clearly no use telling Mycroft any of this as he had decided that Sherlock wasn’t going to succeed with the case and maybe it was gentler to just let him believe that he was right, shedding some of the heat he was putting Sherlock under by sticking his nose into this. 

So, instead of firing off the childish response he usually resorted to when confronted by his brother, he decided to agree with what he was saying, if only for appearances sake. 

He didn’t really need Mycroft to pull this off, he could manage on his own and even if it would be trickier to continue pursuing the Magnussen business without Mycroft finding out, it was preferable to being subjected to these types of lectures every time he did something Mycroft had not given him permission to do. 

This was all down to his brother’s incessant need for control. It was straight out compulsory, and it had always been an issue between them. Better to let Mycroft believe he had won this round and continue with his own investigations under the radar. 

If he managed to keep John from this as well, the better. The tension that had begun to manifest itself between them was threatening to ruin this nice thing they had going and even if “The Work” usually came first in his book, he wasn’t actually willing to sacrifice John’s love for a case that admittedly was intriguing, but in reality was more like a distraction while waiting for something better to come along.

Naturally Mycroft would never believe him if he just folded without opposition, so some resistance was needed and the first thing he did was to pull his hand back and glare at his brother.

“Fine. If you think I won’t succeed with this quite boring case you have thrown into my lap, then you can very well deal with it yourself. It’s not as if Magnussen is the most exciting criminal I ever encountered. In fact, it could be argued that he isn’t really a criminal at all, merely a media mogul with a morally corrupt way of conducting his business, and he is hardly the only one being attributed with that trait. The way you use the word _innocent_ when describing his blackmailing victims could actually be debatable if I was inclined to bother about such things. As the topic is dull enough as it is, I won’t.”

“Sherlock! I won’t have you talking about my colleagues in such a fashion! A man committed suicide...”

“Yes, yes, we had this conversation already. In fact, it feels like ever since we began looking for that mysterious vault, we have been doing nothing more than move in circles around the same subjects over and over again. I’m happily washing my hands of this whole mess and leaving you to deal with it on your own!”

“But...”

Mycroft actually seemed taken aback by this, but at least he had dropped his suspicious questioning momentarily. A surprised Mycroft was infinitely better than a Mycroft full of misgivings and reasons to worry. Taking advantage of his brother's lapse of control, Sherlock swiftly reached for the doorknob once more and threw the door open with full force.

“Goodbye, Mycroft. Good luck dealing with this affair as you see fit and don’t come knocking on my door for any further assistance. That option is no longer available."

And with those final words he steered a baffled Mycroft out on the porch before firmly closing the door in his face and headed back upstairs to join John for a well-deserved cup of tea.

********** 

John was relieved when hearing the news that the Magnussen business was no longer actively going to be pursued.

The anger he had felt when confronted with Mycroft’s retelling of what he had seen on the CCTV feed had been substantial enough to make his heart boil and even if a part of him had still wished to hear what Sherlock had to say for himself, jealousy had a way of sidestepping logic and once released it was very difficult to put that feeling back into the box. 

He was normally not a very jealous person, he believed in giving people the benefit of the doubt once deciding to trust them, and even if Sherlock was a gifted liar when it helped him in his work, John wasn’t prepared to believe that Sherlock would lie to him about things that actually mattered. Especially not now when they were so much more to each other. 

Of course there was still the expected little white lie between them at times, he succumbed to that habit himself when the situation demanded it or he simply couldn’t stand the other alternative, but engaging in sexual activities with another man did hardly fall into that category. Therefor it was a relief to be told that there was a logical reason behind everything Mycroft had tried convincing him was immoral behaviour from Sherlock. 

That Magnussen was attracted to Sherlock, more than attracted actually, was not news to either of them, but that didn’t mean that anything untoward had to happen. Sherlock would not do anything to cross that line, John felt confident of that now as he sat with his hot cup of tea between his fingers, looking at his friend sitting across from him in his chair, sipping at his own tea while telling him that he no longer had any desire to follow through with this idiotic case Mycroft had thrown in his lap. It was simply not interesting enough and unworthy of his time.

John nodded towards the phone lying on the table next to Sherlock.

“What are you going to do about the phone situation? Magnussen doesn’t know that all of this was because of a case, he will keep ringing your damn mobile relentlessly if you don’t put an end to it.”

“Magnussen isn’t the type of person that is used to taking no for an answer. It’s easier for me to just change the number, that sort of message is far more effective. In the meantime...”

Sherlock languidly reached his hand out to retrieve his phone and then, to John’s utter shock, dropped it into his teacup.

“Most phones are waterproof for duration between 5 to 30 minutes, so an hour should render this model completely useless. Then we won’t be bothered by it anymore. I’ll order a new one this afternoon and set up a new number.”

Joh still stared with bafflement at the sleek, black and most likely very expensive model sitting in the teacup.

“But what about your contacts? Everything you had on that phone; it won’t be retrievable now.”

“Eidetic memory, John. Nothing of value should ever be kept on anyone’s phone, it’s too easily lost and forever gone even if you take all kinds of precautions to prevent it from happening. Theft, misplacing it, sheer usage, dropping it into the toilet, people tend to lose their phones under all kinds of unfortunate events, so a phone to me is simply a tool that I use when I need it, nothing that I depend on for anything truly important.”

John couldn’t help but revel in the sense of relief that things were finally going to back to normal now. Or whatever constituted as normal in their household.  
It had been quite pleasing to realise that Sherlock had so easily decided to drop the case altogether. No more Magnussen, no more jealousy, no more Mycroft for a little while. They could go back to chasing the type of criminals they usually dealt with, maybe Lestrade had something exciting to offer them if no clients came knocking on their door. 

There were other things they could do to occupy themselves as well, and as he looked over at Sherlock, lounging in the chair opposite him, he could feel how much he had missed the man these past couple of days. Just like this, for his use only, with nothing to disturb them.

He determinedly put his cup down next to him and then leaned back in his chair, a satisfied smile on his lips.

“We have a little bit of spare time on our hands I believe,” he said and let his eyes meet Sherlock’s, a suggestive tone in his voice. During the Magnussen case it had felt as if his time with Sherlock had been somehow shared with Magnussen, but as that obstacle was now removed, maybe he could get his flatmate’s full attention back again.

The hint of a smile played on Sherlock’s lips as well now and he tilted his head a little to the side in mock amazement.

“So it seems. Any suggestions on how to spend that time wisely?”

“Oh, I have a few ideas. Why don’t you come over here and sit on my lap and I’ll tell you all about it.”

John patted his hand suggestively against his knee and felt a stir of excitement as Sherlock slowly rose from his chair to take him up on his offer.

********** 

As expected, a changed mobile number didn’t mean that the situation with Magnussen was left hanging indecisively in the air, unable to proceed. It only meant that new tactics had to be resorted to and as Sherlock was sitting by the microscope the next day, looking at a few neglected slides that he had saved for an uneventful day such as this, John out to do the weekly shopping, the doorbell rang downstairs.

Normally Mrs Hudson would take it if he just pretended to ignore the incessant ringing long enough, but apparently she was out as well as the buzzer kept going relentlessly, finally forcing him to rise in anger from his chair, his dressing gown billowing around him as he barged down the stairs, readying himself to to throw the door open and hurl insults at however had decided to disturb his piece.

He knew John hated when he acted like this. He claimed that it risked scaring off potential clients with this kind of rude behaviour, but Sherlock had long ago learned to hear the difference between the determined signal of anticipation when coming from a potential client or when it was just an idiot trying to get his attention by insisting to persistently use the door bell as a way of luring him out of the flat. 

This was clearly from that second category.

“What?” he snarled as he pushed the door open with full force, expecting to see someone cowering in surprise by this unexpected reaction. To his surprise he looked down at the very familiar face of the member of his homeless network that he had used yesterday, posing as the delivery man sent to cause a disturbance so Sherlock could be allowed to escape Magnussen’s flat.

Even more surprising was the fact that the man was still wearing the uniform Sherlock had arranged for him to wear to complete the disguise.

In his hands there was a little parcel, also very familiar, as it looked exactly the same as the one Sherlock had used to put his little note to Magnussen into. It seemed unlikely to be the same as it looked unused, but on the other hand, the original carton had come from Baker Street and was something he had purchased years ago in a small Indonesian shop by the docks, so it seemed unlikely that anyone would have been able to track down and purchased another one like it.

“This is for you,” the delivery man said and handed over the parcel tentatively before starting to turn around to descend the steps again.

Sherlock called out to stop him from moving any further.

“Wait! Who’s this from?”

Without actually looking at him properly, the delivery man simply shrugged his shoulders.

“I can’t say.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at this.

“What do you mean you can’t say? You work for _me_ remember, I hired you. Why are you still running around making deliveries? Is this Magnussen's doing?”

The man simply shook his head in misery and continued to move away. 

It was tempting to reach out and prevent him from leaving, demand some answers, but considering that his brother was continually keeping tabs on his movements, as per usual, it wouldn’t do to be caught creating a scene out in public. So Sherlock decided to let the man leave for now. He had other ways of contacting him later and instead he turned with the parcel still in his hand and closed the door behind him to shut out any prying eyes or surveillance cameras.

As he walked up the stairs, weighing the lightness of the carton in his hand, he wondered what sort of message Magnussen had actually sent him.

He seated himself in his chair and carefully opened the delivery. Inside it was a handwritten note as well as an envelope. The note simply said:

_You have apparently been asking around for my identity. Will gladly inform you personally of this tomorrow evening. Mr Magnussen meanwhile sends you his regards and says he is looking forward to a repeat performance from you soon. Car will pick you up at six. _

He could feel the actual hairs on his neck rise from excitement as he realised who it was that had sent the message. The mystery guest from that first night he had spent with Magnussen! 

The delightfully thrilling man with the manic mannerisms that had alluded to all sorts of criminal activity and unsavoury behaviour despite Sherlock’s presence. He was clearly a bit unhinged if he allowed himself to make revelations like that in the company of a stranger, even if he probably had thought that Sherlock was one of Magnussen’s usual young men that he brought home for a night of entertainment. 

Sherlock held no illusions about being the only one Magnussen wanted to engage with sexually, and he could easily be replaced if the interest waned. But he suspected that Magnussen seldom was refused what he wanted and that the sort of sexual acts that turned the other man on wasn’t of the normal variety.  
Sherlock had managed to pique his interest beyond the normal appeal he held for young, good-looking men, he had presented an allure beyond the expected and that was most likely the reason why Magnussen chased him so determinedly now. 

But frankly Sherlock couldn’t care less. Magnussen held no real interest for him. He was a small-time offender, more morally ambiguous than anything else, and if Mycroft hadn’t so firmly asked for his help in this matter, he wouldn’t have given this case a second look. 

But this other man...

He was something completely different. He seemed like an actual challenge if Sherlock’s instinct was to be relied on, and he was seldom wrong when it came to such matters.

Curiously he opened the envelope to take a peek.

Inside it was a single photograph.

He picked it up and felt his blood run cold at the sight.

It was a picture of him, cuffed to the ceiling of Magnussen’s living room, naked from the waste up, the undone button of his trousers fully visible. But the worst part was the look on his own face that could be described as portraying temptation and gladly so. There was no question about him being a willing participant in whatever it was that he was about to do.

At the back of the photo, something was written down, this time in a different handwriting than the one on the note.

_There is plenty of these to be passed around and enjoyed by others. Perhaps you have a loved one who would be interested in getting a copy?_

Sherlock could feel his throat tightening while realising the implication, simultaneously trying to grasp how this could even be possible. 

He had made sure to check for surveillance both on the first night he had been in Magnussen’s living room as well as an additional check yesterday but had found nothing. After years of having a brother who planted surveillance equipment in every place Sherlock’s had ever called home, under the pretence of brotherly concern, he had become quite the expert in spotting hidden cameras and recording devices, and he was certain that there had been none in the room. 

And yet, here he was, staring at a picture of himself half naked and ready to be used as blackmailing material against him, a prospect he, a mere minute ago had not thought actually possible. 

He looked closely at the angle of the photo, trying to discern from where it could have been taken and where a hidden camera might have been placed despite his very thorough efforts.

Just as he heard movements downstairs from the front door being opened and the sound of firm steps walking inside, he realised why the angle of the photo was so detailed and close up, perfectly capturing his own facial features as well as the undone button with such clarity.

It was taken from right in front of him. From where Magnussen must have stood because Sherlock was looking right into the camera with that alluring glint in his eyes. From that angle it told him that it must have been at the same level as Magnussen’s face.

And then it hit him.

The glasses....

He heard the sound of approaching steps on the stairs, as well as a familiar voice calling his name, and he managed to scramble the photo as well as the note inside his pocket just as the door opened to reveal John walking in with a grocery bag in each hand.

“Hey, love, miss me?” he said and planted a kiss on Sherlock’s pale cheek before heading to the kitchen to unpack the bags.


	8. Misgivings

The problem with this relationship lark was that when you absolutely needed a little privacy it was impossible to be had and there was absolutely no way he could possibly tell John any of recent events without angering him. Worse than that, John might actually leave if confronted with this latest development and where would that leave Sherlock? 

Fending for himself or possibly forced to humbly crawl back to Mycroft and ask for assistance?   
Well, he was most certainly not going to do that. Not after all that crowing he had put his brother through recently, he would rather chew glass.

So alone it was then.

After a sleepless night twisting and turning next to John without finding any piece of mind and the hours had begun to tick away, he could only see one solution to the much-needed leeway he required to be able to sneak out to the car that was picking him up at six.

He had tried more conventional methods of shaking off John at first but had failed miserably at all of them. 

His first attempt had been the well-known sexual diversion technique which had arguably been pleasant, and John had indeed seemed sleepy enough afterwards, as content and satisfied as a person thoroughly fucked could possible be. But apparently it had not been enough, and quite to the contrary it had resulted in John becoming even more clingy, insisting they should cuddle afterwards. 

The other tactic had been to pick a fight, hopefully driving John from the flat out of pure annoyance, but it had failed as well. Too content after the sex they had engaged in, John was possible more tolerant to every annoying effort Sherlock attempted in order to get him to storm out, and eventually Sherlock himself tired of his own game and gave up. 

Instead he resorted to use a method he actually had considered from the very beginning but still felt slightly hesitant about because once performed, it could possible put him in ever greater trouble than he already found himself to be in. But sometimes situations simply demanded unethical methods and as he had already made a mess of things rather spectacularly, he might just as well continue down that path and see where it led him.

So when John disappeared into the kitchen, still dressed in just his underwear and a satisfied smile on his lips, Sherlock took advantage of the situation by snaking his arms around his middle, nibbling at his ear in an uncharacteristically gentle manner and when John turned his head to search for his lips, he used the lapse of concentration and slipped a sedative into John’s mug. 

As he watched John grow increasingly sleepy, he managed to lure him over to the sofa under the pretence of further snogging, letting his fingers soothingly massage John’s scalp to speed up the effect of lethargy and when the other man finally dozed off, Sherlock carefully arranged his body in a comfortable position on the sofa, draping a blanket over his body, before rushing off to take a shower and change clothes.

The lack of time had not left him with a lot of options to consider how to proceed now that the cards of his opponent were out in the open, he didn’t really know what the evening would bring, but he assumed it would be unpleasant. Especially if Magnussen was going to be present as well.

He had disposed of the picture of himself, as well as the note and the envelope, but other than that, he couldn’t prepare any further, except steeling himself for whatever was going to happen.

Punctually at six the car parked next to the kerb outside and in order to prevent his brother’s surveillance from growing suspicious, he made certain that he didn’t keep it waiting, that the lights were left on inside the flat to show that John was still in it and seemingly okay with him leaving (they didn’t know that the doctor was in fact sound asleep and would be for a couple hours still), and as casually as possible he strode down and calmly entered the car, as if it had been a cab or some other perfectly normal vehicle waiting for him. 

The idiots at Mycroft’s intel team would probably not report it straight back to their employer as anything significant, but simply make a passing note of it, he did jump into different vehicles at a regular basis because of his occupation, nothing suspicious about it so far. 

Mycroft really should hire better people, he thought, but luckily for him, such persons seemed rare to find.

As expected, the car held no clues to either who the owner was or where he was being driven. Except for the driver he was alone in it, a partition separating them from each other, and a quick glance around the interior provided him with nothing. 

This was probably not a car used by the person he was going to meet, but a rental for the occasion. This made him wonder how much this mysterious man actually knew about him. If he knew what Sherlock did for a living he probably knew how good he was at deducing things from the smallest of details and therefor he had chosen a car devoid of any details to analyse. Or maybe he had simply just hired a car. It was not worth analysing without further data, so he leant back in his seat and simply allowed himself to be chauffeured to whatever destination he was headed. 

He had initially thought that it would be a place in central London but soon enough they entered the M25 headed south, as darkness began to settle outside and houses became more sparse, small suburbs flashing by occasionally and the train to the airports passed by every now and again in the distance. 

He was reminded of how it felt driving home to visit their parents, something he very seldom did, unless Mycroft more or less kidnapped him to do so. Such journeys were similar to this, him sitting in the backseat of a car watching the pulse of the big city receding behind his back in favour of this, the imminent countryside and outer boroughs, where there was no buzzing of life and sound, where everything was vast and far between. 

He remembered with a shudder how it was to grow up in a place where everyone had known everyone and to forever be given a part that was very difficult to shed, whether you wanted that particular part or not. He had headed for London the second it had been made an option for him and never really looked back. 

He wasn’t even that fond of taking cases that forced him to travel out of town. Local police enforcements were always so doggedly territorial and suspicious of input by someone from the outside, he always ended up in a foul mood when confronted with their attitude and unless the case was really intriguing he didn’t bother making the journey. 

Eventually, after over an hour of driving, they turned away from the larger roads and began to descend into true provincial territory, actual trees and fields swishing by in the darkness, the glimmer of light from buildings disappearing in the background. 

There was the occasional cottage being passed, but this was more rural, very reminiscent of the place where he had himself grown up.   
John did for some reason nurture the idea that he and Mycroft had been shipped off to boarding school at an early age and never left until the school system that spitted them out into the world in the form now they now occupied, but that was far from the truth. 

Plenty were the days were Sherlock had spent his times idling away in places like this ,with nothing but endless landscape surrounding him, bored out of his mind and with nothing to do but feel sorry for himself and lashing out at those closest to him, Mycroft if available, otherwise their parents. 

It had been absolutely hateful, and it was part of the reason why he never desired to return willingly.   
With nothing to occupy his mind, it had been a tortuous existence and one of the few comforts had been obsessing about articles of crimes that he read in the papers, crimes that took place in far more exciting places than the one he was stuck living in. It had been the tentative seed of what later became the career he now had, an interest that managed to be one of the few things preventing him from going out of his mind.

At the beginning of the journey he had entertained the idea that the car might be headed for Appledore. Because even if the invitation had come from the other man, Magnussen clearly had his dirty fingers in this as well and as they were apparently going out of town, it could have been a plausible destination. A destination he would have actually appreciated as it would have presented him with the option to more easily assess the threat he was now being under, perhaps even managing to find that wretched vault that by now was beginning to feel like an elusive end game he no longer had any control of. 

Pretty soon though he realised that they were going in the wrong direction of Cotswolds where Appledore was located, by his estimation they were now in Surrey, in the opposite direction, so wherever they were headed, it wouldn’t do him any good guessing the destination, he would simply have to find out eventually, however irritating that idea was.

His thoughts touched on John sleeping on the sofa, unaware of any of this. 

The sedative wouldn’t keep him out for the whole night if he wasn’t particularly knackered to begin with, but a few hours, sure. It would have been ideal if John never realised that Sherlock was gone but considering the journey he was now forced to endure, it seemed less plausible to manage that with every passing minute. 

He felt a pang of regret about how he had dealt with the John aspect of this whole affair. 

He had never desired to cause him any pain and he knew how insecure the doctor still was when it came to their relationship, and how that insecurity easily manifested itself into jealousy, however unfounded. 

Sometimes he just looked at Sherlock as if he couldn’t believe how lucky he was to have found someone like him. 

Sherlock could understand that feeling to an extent, he was infinitely grateful as well for this unexpected turn of events, he had never really pictured himself being with anyone, love had never truly been in the cards for him and when he had realised how John had felt for him, it had at first felt like an utter shock, like something he didn’t know how to handle. 

Initially he had tried to ignore it, wishing that it would just go away and turn things back to normal again. He had been satisfied with the former arrangement of just being friends who shared a flat and solved crimes together. As he had never really expected to have a friend either, he had basked in the novelty of that experience and felt quite content with the situation as it was, never realising that there could be anything more. 

When he had eventually realised that John wanted something else and was doing a rather poor job of hiding those feelings, Sherlock had felt embarrassed for not realising it earlier. 

With the exception of that first night at Angelo’s when he had shut down any dating aspirations quite directly, he had never touched on the subject again, thinking that it wasn’t a matter of relevance. 

When he had realised that John must have harboured feelings for him secretly without him realising it, he became cross, at himself for failing to notice and at John for complicating a perfectly fine arrangement. 

But as he had begun to consider the situation more closely he had realised that he wasn’t as averse to the idea of something more than just friendship and once coming to this conclusion, it had been very easy to make up his mind and do something about it, as John was clearly not going to be the one taking the first step. 

And from then on, things had been great, all misgivings about romantic commitment thrown out the window and fully enjoyed by both parties, even if some aspects of being in a relationship still confused and slightly bothered him. 

But in essence, John was everything he had ever wanted and even the idea of not having him by his side anymore was unthinkable, making his stomach tighten nervously when he considered that this situation somehow could result in John leaving him. There were so many "ifs" and "should-haves" he normally never bothered with but now suddenly meant a difference as they could ensure that he would end up alone, without John’s love and affection, something that he, like an addict, actually craved nowadays. 

He tried to waive these thoughts away, he could hardly afford to be distracted by sentiment at a time like this, but persistently they stayed at the back of his mind for the duration of the car ride.

*********** 

Back in London Mycroft was still at his office despite the late hour.

Since Sherlock had more or less slammed the door in his face, he had not bothered with reaching out to his wayward brother despite the threat of Magnussen still hanging over his head as well as his colleagues. 

At least the media mogul had been occupied for the past couple of days running after Sherlock and had unlikely planned an attack against Mycroft simultaneously.   
But men like Magnussen were like dormant reptiles, hiding in the grass, seemingly harmless at first sight but ready to strike at any given moment and Mycroft knew enough to realise he had no time to spare waiting for the next move. 

The fact that Sherlock had quite suddenly sworn off helping him had been an unexpected turn of events. He knew his brother had clearly not told the truth about his visit to Magnussen and the discovery that he had exited with his clothes in a disarray from Magnussen’s flat was a cause for concern, a clear sign that his brother had done something neither he nor Dr Watson would have approved of. 

Even if Mycroft found Sherlock’s relationship with the doctor quite pointless and frankly a weakness to be exploited by others, he could concede that his brother seemed more content with life since this development. 

Although he held no special regard for John Watson, in reality thinking the man a bit of a nuisance and actually marvelled about what it was that had intrigued Sherlock enough to embark on a relationship with him, Mycroft was still happy that Sherlock, occasionally at least, tried to rein in his more high-strung impulses on account of the doctor and anyone helping Mycroft with preventing Sherlock from running straight into disaster, at least deserved some semblance of credit.

But as of late, it felt like this ability had lost its power a little bit. Much on account of the weakness of them being in a relationship and what such a status provided regarding the blindness of feelings such as jealousy. Even if jealousy was such a base instinct, seldom based on logic and also an effect of the idea that a person was like a belonging, not meant to be shared with others, Mycroft could concede that it had managed to throw a wrench in the relationship between his brother and John on the topic of Magnussen. 

And even if Mycroft had initially not realised how far his brother would go in his efforts to get to Magnussen, he had to concede that John might actually have cause for concern. Or perhaps _had_ was more correct, presented in the past tens, as Sherlock no longer was interested in pursuing the case, probably deciding to focus on the mystery guest completely instead. Or even forgoing the whole matter entirely if DI Lestrade called with a more tempting offer. 

But there was still that nagging idea at the back of Mycroft’s head that something wasn’t quite as it should. Sherlock had folded just a tad _too_ easily, swearing off the whole Magnussen business a little _too_ conveniently, even if he was a creature of impulse and Mycroft must have ruffled his feathers by lecturing him in the hallway at Baker Street. 

The picture of Sherlock running down the street with his shirt open, his coat flapping behind his back away from Magnussen’s flat, was still firmly ingrained in Mycroft’s mind, especially the fact that his brother had seemed almost giddy in his features, like a small boy playing truant on school hours, or having pulled off a really successful prank. It was highly worrisome. 

His surveillance on Magnussen had told him nothing out of the ordinary, he had been at the flat at the same time as Sherlock but only for a very brief period of time, and afterward he had headed straight back to the office. It was all very ambiguous and nothing easily justifying his sense of concern, and yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling of something going on just beyond his own ability to see it.

As he reached out to turn down the lid of his laptop, he decided that the easiest way of finding out what Sherlock was actually up to was to reach out to the source closest to him and try finding some answers from him. 

A quick call to the man in charge of surveillance told him that Sherlock wasn’t at home, but the doctor was and that suited Mycroft just fine. A talk with him, just the two of them, was bound to give more results than watching his brother trying to pull wool over his eyes with smokescreens and lies. 

As he was about to cancel the call, a though hit him. 

“My brother, do you know when he left and where he was headed?”

“He was picked up by a car a little over an hour ago, nothing out of the ordinary really, most likely case related. We kept track of the car as long as it moved about the city area, it was just an ordinary car, not one of Magnussen’s. I can check if someone has some information regarding destination, Sir.”

“You do that and get back to me. And you’re sure my brother went alone?”

“Yes, Sir. Doctor Watson is still in the flat. We haven’t seen movements through the window in a while, but the angle isn’t that great, he could be in front of the telly, or up in his own room. But he has not left the flat since you left, Sir.”

“I’m heading over there now. Inform me of the destination of the car my brother took earlier and also if he is about to return while I’m still at Baker Street.”  
And with those parting word he disconnected the call and left his office, heading for a well due conversation with Dr Watson regarding his brother.

********** 

Almost two hours had passed when the car finally reached its destination. Through the darkness, it had made its way across a small country road for the past twenty minutes, before coming to a huge gate that automatically opened itself as the car approached. A camera was situated on each side of so somewhere inside the premises someone was aware of their arrival and had arranged for the gate to open.

There was another five minutes of silent driving through an allée of majestic oak trees before signs of light presented itself ahead of them in the form of a large manor rising impressively from the otherwise quite unkempt shrubbery surrounding the place. 

As the car came to a halt in front of the stairs leading up to the main entrance, the door opened and the silhouette of a man presented itself in the doorway, the light from inside making him difficult to distinguish, but he seemed to be of a rather formidable build, taking up a large portion of the space he was occupying, taller and broader than Sherlock by far, even more so than even Mycroft. 

Sherlock did remember this feature from when they had met at Magnussen but the surroundings, the shadow he presented, made the impression even more remarkable than what he recollected.

As he stepped out of the car, the figure at the top of the stairs didn’t move, but a voice came towards him though the darkness, a booming voice who despite his words didn’t sound particularly greeting.

“Mr Holmes, welcome to Stoke Moran. My name is Doctor Grimesby Roylott. Your arrival has been most anticipated.”


	9. The deliverance of threats

When Mycroft entered the flat and spotted John Watson fast asleep on the couch, alarm bells began to go off inside his head. 

Even if the doctor didn’t accompany his brother wherever he went, he did _not_ go to sleep when Sherlock was out, but instead he stayed up awaiting his return. Naturally he had dozed off a time or two in the past when the hour was late, but this was something completely different. This was full sleep mode, lying down on the couch with a blanket neatly tucked in around his body. The work of someone who cared about him. 

Clearly Sherlock then, or Mrs Hudson, if not for the fact that she wasn’t at home and hadn’t been for the past two days. 

And if John Watson was sleeping this heavily while his brother had gone off on his own, it smelled like a setup, fitting very well with the cunning nature of his brother.

Mycroft gave the room a quick glance over, trying to look for clues to what his brother might be up to, but except for the usual disarray of the place, nothing seemed out of order. Naturally the doctor could fill in the blanks to some extent if properly asked, but Mycroft knew that normal people weren’t even half as observant as he and Sherlock. The chances of Dr Watson realising anything out of the ordinary were slim, but telling him about Sherlock’s recent act of disappearance could perhaps reveal something to an older brother who knew his sibling’s thought process almost as well as his own.

He stepped over to the sleeping form on the sofa and poked it in the arm with the tip of his umbrella. 

As Mycroft wasn’t comfortable touching people in general, and specifically not people lying about in the bio hazardous den his brother called a home, it felt like the safest option to do it this way. It was after all one of the reasons for carrying his umbrella in the first place whenever dealing with anything related to Sherlock, the risk of contamination being far too great, not to mention unpleasant. 

He pressed the tip rather firmly into the soft flesh of the doctor’s arm and it caused a moaning stir before the sleeping man’s eyelids began to flutter.

It took another agonisingly slow 30 seconds before he actually opened his eyes and blinked a few times to focus his sight on his surroundings and the person standing in front of him.

“Mycroft?” he mumbled, still groggy, and if Mycroft’s deduction was correct, he was clearly affected by whatever Sherlock must have given him to cause such deep sleep.

“Quite so,” Mycroft answered tersely. 

John scratched his head and then put his fingers against his eye sockets to remove the last vestiges of sleep before looking around the room in bewilderment.

“What are _you_ doing here? Where’s Sherlock?”

Mycroft sighed and walked over to the chair his brother used to occupy and sat down heavily in it. 

The Le Corbusier Sherlock had insisted on as payment from a client once, recognising the comfort as well as the work put into the chair, had been a good bargain for helping a woman find a stolen laptop that her jealous boyfriend had confiscated and used to post naked pictures of her online. The case had been one of the early ones when Sherlock still wasn’t too picky about cases and lacked the affinity to discuss payment properly with the few clients he stumbled upon. 

The chair turned out to be a lucky bargain and had been part of the décor in Sherlock’s old residence at Montague Street as well. Like most of his brother’s belongings, the chair had its own individual story and as far as Mycroft was concerned it was one of the few things he actually liked in this mitch match of items that Baker Street consisted of. 

The human skull, the bison with the head phones, not to mention that god awful collection of beetles surrounding the stuffed bat inside a collector’s box, residing on the mantle, were all things Mycroft would never understand why his brother bothered to hang onto, but at least the chair was comfortable, more so than the ancient atrocity that was John’s chair. 

While Mycroft made himself comfortable, straightening his trousers from any imaginable creases, John came to life on the sofa and sat up, blinking like an owl while trying to take in the situation more properly. 

Patiently Mycroft waited.

“Good nap, was it?”

“I...must have fallen asleep?”

“Indeed.”

Sometimes the logic of normal people frankly stumped him. Their need to voice the obvious was tiresome. It was one of the few things he and his brother actually agreed on.

“Where is Sherlock?” John frantically twisted his head as if in the presence of a cobra, looking for the snake charmer to come around the corner to his rescue.

Mycroft observed him expressionlessly.

“That was rather the question I came here to ask you. When is the last time you saw him, doctor Watson?”

John frowned as he searched his memory, seemingly coming up short.

“We were on the sofa, both of us, he was massaging my scalp...” he began, and Mycroft held back a sight of annoyance.

“Spare the intimacies, Dr Watson, if you wouldn’t mind. What was the nature of his mood? Did he tell you something about going anywhere?”

John looked blankly at him, while digging through his still hazy memory.

“....no. Quite the opposite. We didn’t really talk about anything in particular. We....well I won’t go into to details, but we had a very pleasant afternoon. For the most part. There was a short moment when he seemed a little on edge, started to pick on things, almost spoiling for a fight, but it dissipated pretty soon. Then I made us some tea and we ended up here. And then....”

It was almost painful to watch the other man finally come to the realisation of what must have happened to him, his speech coming to a halt as he looked at the cup, his words jogging his memory as he put the situation in context with his own very unexpected session of deep sleep.

“Oh, he drugged me, didn’t he...?” he finally almost whispered, his mind probably still reeling with the realisation while Mycroft had already moved on from that obvious conclusion, trying to focus on the more pressing matter of where his brother might actually have gone.

“So it would seem. Unless you are in the habit of sleeping like a new-born while my brother is nowhere to be found.”

As he saw John Watson’s mouth going from bewilderment to angrily pursed lips, teeth clenched, the nostrils beginning to flare, Mycroft wondered if it would have been wiser to have kept the doctor in the dark regarding his sedation for a little while longer. For as long as he could have been of any use at least. 

Right now it seemed likely that all of John Watson’s further actions would be tainted by mounting anger towards Sherlock, instead of trying to help locate him.

“I’m going to kill him...” he murmured and Mycroft cocked an eyebrow at that, because despite recognising the passion behind those words, having nurtured them himself on several occasions during the years, it was rather unwise to speak them out loud in his presence, being Sherlock’s older and very protective brother. There was no way he would accept anyone harming his younger sibling, unless it was himself doling out the punishment. 

“Yes, I appreciate the anger when presented with this scenario, believe me, I’m hardly pleased with him myself. But the pressing matter at the moment is to find out where he is. Once that is accomplished you can decide to have a few chosen words between the two of you.”

John let out a choked sound of rising astonishment.

“A few chosen _words_? He bloody drugged me! There will be more than words, I assure you. He’s going to regret ever having been born!”

John rose from the sofa and began to pace the room while trying to wrap his head around the unexpected deceit he was suddenly facing. It was clear that fury was the dominating emotion occupying his thoughts right now, but at the same time he was still baffled about the reason for Sherlock’s actions against him. 

Mycroft wasn’t as equally perplexed. He knew Sherlock after all and if his brother had wanted to leave John Watson behind for some reason, using sedative drugs sadly wasn’t beneath him. But there was no use going into the fragile morass of his brother’s questionable principles right now, it could wait for a better suited timing.

So instead he remained level-headed while addressing the increasingly agitated doctor.

“Without evidence we can’t be certain what his intentions for doing all of this was. All we know is that he got into a car waiting for him outside the flat and was driven off two hours ago.”

John swivelled to look at Mycroft, his eyes widened.

“What car? So help me God if you tell me that _Magnussen_...”

“I can’t tell you that I know anything with certainty. My intel tells me that the car didn’t belong to Magnussen. But that doesn’t exclude him from sending a car anyway, although it doesn’t exclusively indicate that Magnussen is involved in this.”

A glimmer of hope ignited in the other man’s eyes and Mycroft made sure to quench it immediately by sticking to the reality as he saw it. No use letting anyone cling to any false pretences of hope when the situation spoke differently. So he continued before John had the opportunity to say anything.

“On the other hand, drugging you would suggest Magnussen’s involvement, knowing your dislike of the man and my little brother’s preference of dodging difficult issues rather facing them.”

John threw him a dark look before continuing to pace the room.

“So what now? How do we locate him? You always have such rigorous watch over him otherwise, don’t tell me you chose to let your guard down for once, now that we actually need to find him?”

Mycroft gave him a disapproving look. This was hardly _his_ fault. _He_ wasn’t the one that had been careless enough to be served Sherlock’s cup of sedatives.

“My men are working on it. But the fact that they haven’t reached out yet indicates that they have indeed most likely managed to lose him. “

As if confirming his own words Mycroft pulled his phone out and watched it stare silently back at him.

“While, waiting to hear from them, tell me all you know about my brother’s behaviour from the moment I left yesterday. But please, feel free to exclude all _intimate_ details from the narration. As his older brother I’m not particularly eager to listen to what he gets up to in the bedroom.”

John glared at him and for a moment it looked like he was about to actually erupt, but then he simply shook his head in surrender.

“The only reason I’m telling you anything is because I need you to find him so I can throttle him afterwards. And don’t pretend that you have no idea what he does when he is with me, in or outside the bedroom. You have enough surveillance on us to know the brand of my bloody underwear. How you for some reason have managed to lose sight of him at this particular time, is quite astonishing.”

Mycroft opened his mouth to protest but was interrupted by a hand raised in a silencing motion.

“Spare whatever you’re about to say, I’m not interested. The last thing I remember is that he told me the Magnussen affair was over and done with. He has not indicated that he has any other cases going. In fact, I thought we were spending the evening together, just the two of us. Should have realised it wasn’t even remotely realistic.”

The last sentence was muttered with obvious chagrin, more to himself than to Mycroft.

“And there wasn’t anything in his behaviour....”

“I already told you,” John interrupted. “He lied me straight in the face and then he apparently drugged me to give me the slip. And frankly I don’t even care where he went. I’m tired of his games. I’m tired period. I want you to leave, Mycroft. Now.”

“But, Dr Watson I need...”

“I don’t care what you need. What _I _need is for you to be gone and leave me alone or so help me...”

His fists tightened and Mycroft pursed his lips in displeasure, before he turned his back on the angered doctor and walked out of the room. His exit was more ominous than if he had slammed the door in his wake. 

As he walked down the stairs toward the front door to let himself out, thinking about the waste of time the clutter of emotions always tended to have on other people, there was the distinct tone of an incoming message on his phone and he pulled it out to look at it.

_Target not found. The car was driven out of the city but untraceable a few miles ahead of Reigate. Plates hidden behind mud, tinted windows. Location unknown for now. _

Mycroft sighed and decided that if he really wanted some further knowledge, the man with any possible answers to his questions was none other than Charles Magnussen himself and if Sherlock was with him, then Mycroft would soon find out. 

As he crossed the threshold of the Baker Street flat, to leave John Watson to nurture his wounded heart on his own, he pressed a speed dial number and was instantly rewarded with a familiar voice on the receiving end.

“Locate Magnussen and inform me of the address immediately. I’m intending to pay him a visit.”

“Yes, Sir. I’m on it.”

With a soft press of his index finger, he cancelled the call and stepped back inside the waiting car, ready to be driven to someone hopefully more informant of his lost brother’s whereabouts than John Watson, too deeply troubled by Sherlock’s newly discovered deceit and probably soon about to become ex-inhabitant of the flat on 221 B Baker Street.¨

************ 

As Sherlock stepped inside Stoke Moran, he felt a tingle of excitement, despite the situation.

If Magnussen was here as well, he was not part of the welcoming committee and even if some people, himself included, could resist the opportunity to stay in the dark until a great reveal, Magnussen had not presented such characteristics so far. Drama was more his own department. So, even if he couldn’t rule out the possibility of the media man being there somewhere lurking inside, it didn’t seem probable and this elevated his mood noticeably. 

Sherlock knew nothing about this new player, keenly awaiting to make any further assessments, but the man at least seemed to move in an area of crime more familiar to him than Magnussen’s petty offences. Sexual powerplays were beginning to take their toll on him, and he had clearly lost his footing regarding his latest stunt, despite taking all the precautions he had managed. 

Thinking back on his recent failure, he still felt curious about those glasses of Magnussen’s, how did they work exactly? Were they essential to his blackmailing business? Were they one of a kind? 

It didn’t seem likely, but still, Sherlock wouldn’t have minded getting a closer look. If he hadn’t cut Mycroft off from the case, he could have asked him about it, he probably knew if other pairs like it existed, but as the situation was, he was on his own in this.

Well, at least he had earned himself some breathing space from Magnussen for now, having this other man to sink his teeth into instead.

Dr Grimesby Roylott had stepped aside to allow him entrance but Sherlock still felt the distinct notion of hostility from the man. It was in the small details, the firmness of his rather coarse features, the knitting of his brow, how his hands involuntarily tightened themselves, as if preventing them to throw a punch at any moment.  
He was visibly angry and seemed to be the kind of man who, when provoked, would not hold back when incensed. 

Sherlock had seen glimpses of his temper on that first occasion back at Magnussen’s flat, but now there was a tension in him that was tangible and should have made Sherlock weary of stepping inside this monstrosity of a house, the waft of Victoriana all over it, the creepy old manor long forgotten in the middle of nowhere. 

But of course he felt no trepidation at all, mere curiosity, and when relief over Magnussen’s probable absence loosened the tightness of his chest, he felt himself relax despite the circumstances. 

Dr Roylott was strong in build, probably a brute when pushed over the edge, but Sherlock was agile and skilled in how to fend for himself, so for now, no need to worry, just keep all senses on edge and watch out for what lurked in the corners. He had faced worse.

The manor itself was just like what it looked like from the outside.  
Rather unkempt, cracks in the walls, a very worn carpet, somewhat murky and open spaces with a huge flight of stairs leading up to a gaping darkness on the second floor, indistinguishable from where they were standing. 

There was a flicker of light coming from a room to their left and as Dr Roylott was still standing behind him by the front door, unmoving, Sherlock drew the conclusion himself and turned towards the invitingly open door where the light was coming from.

Better show some determination with this man from the very beginning, not let him spot any insecurity. 

Not that he felt insecure exactly, this was far more his element that Magnussen’s flat and that owner’s doings, but nevertheless, Dr Roylott hade the advantage of being an unknown variable so far. What exactly was it that he wanted?

Sherlock could hear the other man follow him from behind as he stepped into what appeared to be a salon, more Victorian era than modern day, with heavy furniture and gilded frames around outdated paintings, some very intricate dark tapestry and the light coming mostly from a roaring fireplace and an actual oil lamp. 

What was this, a shrine of things long forgotten? Was the host some sort of history aficionado keen on keeping this place in the same conditions as from 150 years ago? 

Sherlock was a keen collector himself of all things he found fascinating, no regard to age, functionality or if it matched the rest of his furniture. But even he had limits.

This was like taking several steps back in time, to a more gauche era of interior design. There was an even a cord hanging from the ceiling, used to call for the attention of servants. He wondered if the house harboured any of them or if Dr Roylott resided here alone like some desolate spectre.

Just as he was about to step further into the room to sit himself in the only chair that looked decently comfortable, he startled as he caught the site of a gleaming pair of yellow eyes staring at him from a corner to his right.

It actually took him a second to find his bearings again and realise that what he was looking at wasn’t real but very much a dead specimen.

“That’s Sheebah,” Dr Roylott said from behind him, far closer than Sherlock first realised. He must have moved swiftly into the room and shortened the distance between them with quiet steps despite his large frame. “Her successor roams the park surrounding the house.”

Sherlock stared at the stuffed form of the cheetah in front of him while wrapping his head around the idea that a wild version of this animal was running free out there in the wilderness.

“Is she tame?” he asked.

“Not in the least. Cheetahs are not meant to be pets. I like them for their ferocity. They spot a prey and they go for it, simple as that. No hesitation. “

“And you’re not afraid to walk the premises yourself? What’s to prevent her from killing you?”

“Oh, I don’t venture outside without precaution. That would be suicidal. She isn’t the only danger lurking out there. I have a few other specimens roaming the premises as well.”

Sherlock gave a bemused snort.

“A veritable zoo, it seems.”

“A zoo has the option of safety. This has not.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but let his mouth twitch a little when hearing this. A danger seeker then. Like himself. Or like John to a certain extent. 

But John wouldn’t have like this at all. Because he was also a protector. 

The fact that Sherlock had stepped out of a car with the very imminent threat of being attacked by a cheetah would have earned him a reprimand for sure. From Mycroft even more so, despite the fact that Sherlock hadn’t known of that threat until now. He could understand why Dr Roylott had remained by the door when welcoming him. 

It was interesting to meet someone who also liked things a little thrilling. He knew he hadn’t been wrong when assuming that this man was far more interesting than Magnussen and his sordid blackmailing attempts. This had the promise of something truly exciting.

He clasped his hands together in front of him but remained with his back against the doctor. 

“So here I am Dr Roylott. I’m assuming there is a reason for the invite?”

“I’m told you’re apparently eager to make my acquaintance. I merely decided to shorten the process and cut straight to the chase. I have also been informed that you’re a real nuisance, and know-it-all, putting your nose into other people’s business, whether it’s appreciated or not. “

Sherlock’s twitch turned into a full-blown smile at these words. 

“Well, that rather depends on whose business we’re talking about. I don’t meddle in the pedestrian life of the ordinary citizen; their doings hold no interest for me. But, granted, if your business is on the shadier side of the law, then I’m temped to agree with the description of me being a nuisance. To those who fear the light of exposure.”

“I don’t fear anything, Mr Holmes.”

“No, considering your choice of house pet, I think I’m willing to concur. But I don’t fear anything either, Dr Roylott.”

He turned to face his host who was looming close behind him. Time to get to the core of the matter.

They looked at each other and Sherlock felt a veritable tingle run along his spine when meeting those bottomless pools that Dr Roylott’s eyes resembled. It had been far too long since meeting an opponent who seemed to thrive on the theatrics as much as he did. And they had barely scratched the surface yet.

The standstill was interrupted by the doctor suddenly turning away, walking over to the fireplace, leaving Sherlock to follow his movements with curiosity.

“The reason why you’re here, Mr Holmes, is because I have come to realise that nothing but a proper threat will keep your nose out of my affairs.”

“I wasn’t aware that my nose was doing anything of the sort.”

“Don’t play coy with me! You have been asking around for my identity and we both know that you heard things the other night at Magnussen’s that must have piqued your interest. I assumed you were simply one of his rent boys and didn’t think my outspokenness would matter to a person merely there to engage in a sexual transaction. But now when I know who you are and that you have been sniffing around, asking for my name, I realise I made a mistake. But the good thing is, I know how to fix whatever lapses of judgement I’ve made.”

He reached down and picked up an iron poker leaning against the wall next to the fireplace. Holding it firmly in his hand he turned to face Sherlock again, his features turned menacing now. 

“I don’t know what you issue with Magnussen is all about. He told me you like playing games and you did something to him just the other day which whetted his appetite as much as it annoyed him immensely. But his business with you is his own choice, I’m not getting in the middle of it as long as it has nothing to do with me.” His fingers circled the handle of the poker determinedly as if weighing it and its sturdiness. “But he is also a business partner of mine and I was told he sent a little gift of his own in that little delivery that was made to you. Something he said would assure your future pliancy. I don’t know what it was, but I know his methods well enough. Despite this, I don’t trust a rascal like you being turned off by the simple threat of blackmail. You seem far too full of yourself to listens to subtle cautions. I believe in a good old-fashioned warning. So here it comes: Stay out of my business. Don’t even attempt to pursue it any further or you’ll regret it. I’m nothing like our soft-spoken Danish friend with his more refined methods. I don’t want anything from you. I don’t have my mouth salivating at the sight of you. I don’t care who you’re related to or what you do with your life when you’re not trying to ensnare people with the promise of sexual gratification. The only thing I want is for you to stop hounding me, looking for ways to nestle yourself into my business.”

Sherlock still smiled after this lengthy speech, noticing how Dr Roylott seemed to have worked himself up to a hostile posture.

Beneath the words the man was clearly rattled. 

If not, he wouldn’t have bothered with all of this. 

So instead of replying, Sherlock remained calmly looking at the increasingly aggressive doctor, waiting for the actual threat to come. Most likely involving that poker he was making a point of showcasing so openly.

And as if on demand, Dr Roylott grabbed a firmer hold of the poker and then, without any visible effort, he bent it in the middle, in an open display of physical strength ,meant to intimidate his guest, before he threw it down on the carpet between them.

“This is what I will do to you if you don’t immediately cease from pursuing the matter any further. Do whatever it is you need to do with Magnussen and be scorched by that fire eventually. But don’t so much as throw a glance in my direction from now on or I will _ruin_ you. Have I made myself clear?”

Sherlock tilted his head to the side, looking at the disfigured poker, then he turned his eyes to face Doctor Roylott again.

“The point of making yourself understood has never been the issue. It is if I’m willing to do as you say that is the real question.”

He stepped forward until he reached the poker. Then he bent down to pick it up, looking at it with curiosity.

“It is your own funeral you’re staring at if you don’t follow my order. I wasn’t asking you, Mr Holmes. I was _telling_ you.”

Sherlock weighed the poker in his hands, looking at it as if it was far more interesting than the man in front of him. This was all about posing now, and no one outplayed him when pulling off the dramatics. He had honed that talent since childhood, driving his brother to despair with his need to show off at all times, appropriate or not.

Then, with a swift snatch of his hands, he straightened the poker back into its former shape again, before throwing it back down on the floor.

“Threats are all fine and good when you have no opposition to really consider. But I for one am not easily intimidated, neither by displays of physical strength or the menace of words. Your speech was quite funny when it comes to entertainment value, I was thoroughly amused. But regarding my continuing pursuit of whatever interest I take in your affairs, it has made no effect. Kudos for effort though.”

It was like switching on a button, the way fury instantly flashed in Doctor Roylott’s eyes at these flippant words. 

And for a second Sherlock actually considered the fact that no one knew where he was, as if this was a novelty to him. 

John was most likely still soundly asleep back home and Mycroft was no longer a part of his investigation. Not even Magnussen was here, and even if Sherlock had initially been happy about this state, the other man would arguably have been a buffer to whatever mad man ramblings this person was all about. 

His own cocky attitude had done nothing but stoke the flames even further and even if it had felt irresistible at the time, he realised that while being trapped in this secluded mansion in the middle of nowhere, a cheetah on the prowl outside and a man with the temperament of an injured bull facing him, verbal teasing had perhaps not been the wisest move.

In front of him Dr Roylott’s nostrils flared in mounting rage, his eyes threatening to bulge out of his head at any second, the tone of his face growing darker.

Then he charged against Sherlock with all his might, murderous violence evident in his features.


	10. Fumbling in the dark

As luck would have it, Mycroft was spared a trip all the way to Appledore to meet with Charles Magnussen. The man was having his dinner at The Delauney and despite being initially stopped at the door by the maître’d, Mycroft’s card given to a waiter resulted in him being shown to the private dining room where the media mogul was sitting with a group of ten other people, enjoying a luxurious meal.

Normally Mycroft wasn’t a person breaking social codes by interrupting other people’s dinner parties and as he realised that Magnussen wasn’t alone, he felt like backtracking out of the room again, excusing himself. 

But before he had the chance to open his mouth, Magnussen made a gesture with his hand and all the people in the room stood up and began to silently leave. 

As they passed him in the doorway Mycroft wasn’t met by a single glance from any of them, and he wondered if this was perhaps standard procedure when dining with Magnussen, something they were used to doing. Or if they were simply hired companions, ready to leave when no longer needed. 

He recognised none of them by appearance, so at least he hadn’t interrupted an evening with someone that could tell people _he_ knew about his social gaffe of interrupting a dinner party held by Charles Magnussen at one of the most exclusive venues in the city.

Even if Mycroft occasionally enjoyed fine dining himself, when his diet permitted it, or rather, when he allowed himself the indulgence, this was not his natural milieu.

Magnussen on the other hand moved in higher levels of society when it came to entertaining himself for the evening, whereas Mycroft, who in all honesty abhorred socialising if not strictly necessary, seldom ventured to places like this. It was opulent and the food left on the plates spoke of high-level cuisine, Michelin stars and expense. 

Yet again he silently cursed his brother for putting him in this position. 

He had no true desire to spend any more time than strictly necessary with a man like Magnussen, and to cause a scene like this, more or less bursting into private gathering of people, was not within his comfort zone at all. 

But as his assistant had failed to inform him of any further details regarding Magnussen’s whereabouts, merely giving him an address where the man was currently residing, he had not reflected on the risk of making a nuisance of himself until the doors to the private dining room had been opened and he had faced his own negligence. 

Used to dining alone whenever not doing it on account of his occupation, Mycroft had not even touched on the idea that others usually did not do so, and such a slip in judgement spoke volumes about the distress he felt about Sherlock’s disappearance.

In all fairness he had expected Sherlock to be the only companion in the room, but unfortunately, this wasn’t the case either.

To make matters worse, Magnussen was clearly sensing his discomfort and did nothing to lessen his embarrassment by breaking the silence that had surfaced between them now that the others were gone. He merely sat at the high end of the table, a small smile on his lips, the cold eyes glittering behind his glances as if infinitely amused. 

This forced Mycroft to be the one to make the first move, a role he wasn’t used to playing, being the expert in the art of conquering situations by using the oppressing power of silence, forcing others to be the nervous ones instead. This tactic did not work with Magnussen unfortunately and as Mycroft was the interrupting party here, he simply had to swallow the sour pill of humbleness and begin his excuses for disrupting the other man’s dinner.

“Mr Magnussen. Let me begin by offering my deepest apologies for disrupting your pleasantries for the evening like this. I should have checked in advance if you were alone or not. I assumed you were at liberty to speak with me as the waiter did not inform me of the situation properly. The fact that he told me to follow him after I had presented him with my card made me assume that you were available.”

Magnussen continued to aloofly observe him the way one did something that was slightly entertaining but not truly of any importance.

“Oh, I’m available, Mr Holmes. It all depends on who asks for my attention. Your card allowed you entry to see me, others might not have been as lucky.”

Mycroft stepped further into the room but stopped a few feet away from Magnussen who remained seated. 

It was suddenly difficult to broach the subject that had brought him in the presence of the media mogul. In this sobering light, with no Sherlock in sight, and considering that no evidence suggested that Magnussen had anything to do with his disappearance after Sherlock had drugged John Watson into a forced sleep of oblivion, this suddenly seemed very futile and embarrassing.

But Magnussen actually saved him from whatever haltering explanation his brain was about to concoct by himself raising the issue of Sherlock.

“I have as of yet not managed to get you brother to join me for a meal, despite many frequent efforts. He has quite the disposition of switching simultaneously between hot and cold at the blink of an eye it seems.”

Magnussen raised a glass to his lips and sipped at the content, while keeping his questioning eyes at Mycroft who managed to find his footing of the situation when realising that Magnussen wasn’t going to let him dangle in his embarrassment any longer. As usual, he seemed more interested in the subject of Sherlock. 

With his best effort of an imperious look directed at Magnussen, his grip of the umbrella handle keeping him grounded, Mycroft took his time before replying, just to allow his whirling thoughts to settle back to a calm control. 

It seemed Magnussen had no idea where Sherlock was and even if that notion meant that Sherlock could be up to some other devilry not to his older brother’s liking, at least it had nothing to do with the repugnant specimen of a man sitting in front of Mycroft right now.

Sherlock in general got up to all kinds of trouble, but as long as he came home unharmed and it didn’t affect Mycroft personally, he usually let it slide. 

This was indeed beginning to look like such a situation, probably being nothing more than one of his brother’s usual cases, and the aftermath of drugging his lover/flatmate was of no consequence to Mycroft.

Better to pretend that everything was like it had been made to appear for the last couple of days, with an apparent truce between them, however falsified the reality of that truce really was. Mycroft was nothing less than professional in the art of playing diplomatically polite when necessary.

“I passed on your message to him from when we last met, Mr Magnussen. But as I pointed out then, I can hardly force his hand. I can perhaps remind him....,” he began, but Magnussen raised his hand and Mycroft silenced in surprise.

“Oh, not to worry, Mr Holmes, I think he will see things from my point of view from now on. I sent him a little incentive to help him make up his mind. In fact, I was actually expecting _him_ to be the one seeking my attention this evening before I read the name on the card properly. But wrong brother it seems.”

Mycroft froze where he stood, despite his best effort not to let it show, a cold grip forming around his heart. 

An incentive was just another word for a threat in Magnussen’s book. What on earth could it have been about? Was it something to with him? 

Or was it something Sherlock for some reason kept as a secret, even if that notion seemed quite unfathomable. His younger brother was notoriously famous for lacking the ability to feel shame and blackmailing was after all about failing to cope with embarrassment.

Magnussen’s smile widened a little.

“I thought that would catch your attention, Mr Holmes. But I must say I’m surprised he sent you instead of coming himself. I would have thought the subject a little sensitive to be discussed between siblings. Or has he not given you any details yet?“

Mycroft felt himself trying to process what he was hearing but coming up short. This was a novelty for someone who was used to be in control of most things in life or at least in the know-how of them. 

But ever since bringing Sherlock in on the Magnussen case, things had been slipping away from his grip. Step by step he had lost whatever command he had initially had over the situation and now he was practically fumbling in the dark. 

However much it chagrined him to admit to this, he realised that he had to confess lacking the proper knowledge to proceed and he pulled out a chair to sit himself down heavily, the umbrella between his knees before meeting Magnussen’s smug face, conceding defeat.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr Magnussen. I haven’t seen my brother since yesterday and we have not been in contact after that. He is not the one who has sent me. Whatever dealings you have between you, I have no knowledge of it. “

Magnussen raised his eyebrows in mock surprise, that infuriating smile still playing on his lips. He looked very smug and it grated immensely on Mycroft’s nerves.

“The omnipotent Mycroft Holmes clueless for once? If the general public just knew of your existence and were capable of realising the significance of such news, I would be tempted put it as a headline in one of my papers.”’

Mycroft gave him an icy stare. 

“Maybe we should send for him? Force him to explain things himself?” Magnussen continued, when Mycroft remained quiet. “Although I would prefer to have him to myself, if you excuse my bluntness. He has shown proof of such remarkable intuition when last I saw him, and I am eager to see how far he would be willing to go down the path he has already paved for himself.”

While Mycroft did his best to supress the mounting uneasiness he was beginning to experience, a sense of doom clouding his thoughts as his own mind tried to fill in all the blanks Magnussen had not yet divulged, the other man picked up his cutlery that had laid discarded next to his plate ever since Mycroft had interrupted his dinner. He determinedly carved out a piece of his steak and joyfully chewed it before dabbing his lips. 

Then the look in his eyes suddenly grew darker.

“I was a bit displeased to hear that he shares lodgings with another man. That does not necessarily mean anything, people in this cesspool of a city do tend to share rent on their overpriced little dens. But still, it displeases me somewhat. Does not the brother of the influential Mycroft Holmes, the éminence grise of this insipid country, have the resources to pay for better lodgings than a subpar flatshare not fit to put my feet inside? If I would deign to pay Sherlock a visit at the poor excuse of a residence that he calls a home, it would require both a tetanus shot in advance as well as a handkerchief pressed against my nose to prevent me from inhaling the stench of that pigsty.”

The way his tone of voice rose from clear indignation as well as the obvious knowledge of the place, made it seem likely that he had actually made an impromptu visit already, when Sherlock and John had not been there themselves. 

He must have noticed something while there, triggering his suspicions regarding Sherlock not being what he had presented himself to be. Maybe Magnussen had seen signs of the relationship with Dr Watson, even if Mycroft had difficulty believing his brother would allow such blatant display of evidence just lying about openly.

In front of him, Magnussen continued darkly:

“But despite what wagging tongues of gossip might conjure up regarding the relationship between your brother and his flatmate, surely they are incorrect, no?”

“Probably,” Mycroft mumbled, thinking about the rage in John’s eyes when he had seen him earlier. It was quite plausible that there would be no relationship left by the end of this evening. 

The hint of relief made the brooding features dissipate from Magnussen’s eyes, returning to their usual cool indifference once more.

“I thought so as well. Considering what sweet Sherlock has been getting up to with me lately. “

A churn of nausea made itself noticed in Mycroft’s stomach when hearing these words and he bit his cheek hard to prevent that feeling from revealing itself in his appearance. 

Why was everyone one so insistent of tormenting him with sexual innuendos regarding his brother, innuendos he had no wish to take any part off?

But if John Watson at least had the decency to shut up when noticing Mycroft’s discomfort, Charles Magnussen thought differently.

“He is so very good at whetting a man’s appetite, showcasing that enviable body of his without giving away too much in the beginning, that little brother of yours. And while I eagerly await his next move, I have the pictures to keep me entertained in the meantime. “

Mycroft groaned internally when hearing this. 

Pictures? Really, Sherlock? 

How could he had been so careless? And how could he have allowed himself to engage in sexual activities with someone like Magnussen in the first place? 

Even if Mycroft was well aware of his brother’s knowledge in the art of seduction to a certain extent, flaunting what other people desired to get what he wanted, Mycroft had always believed that there was a limit to how far his brother was actually willing to go, especially as he so ardently declared that the matter of love and sex was not really his area of interest. 

But in all fairness, if he had managed to embark on a relationship with his flatmate, quite unexpectedly as far as Mycroft was concerned, who knew what other boundaries Sherlock had dissolved as of late?

And if Magnussen was to be believed, there seemed to have been plenty of lines crossed between them already. No wonder Dr Watson was ready to unravel by the seams with such a deceitful lover.

Magnussen took another bite of his food, clearly enjoying the flavour, washing it down with another sip from his glass. The ill temper when talking about Sherlock’s involvement with his flatmate was seemingly gone now. 

Mycroft decided to rise from his chair, using his umbrella as leverage, ready to excuse himself from this awkward situation He had other, more pressing matters to attend to, rather than watching the cat who got the cream finish his meal. 

Whenever he next clapped his eyes on Sherlock, he would give him a thorough scolding and do everything in his power to solve the Magnussen dilemma as quickly as possible before something truly damaging occurred. 

At least Magnussen seemed momentarily occupied with Sherlock, not putting any focus on Mycroft and his colleagues for now, so even if Mycroft resented the man for indulging in his brother sexually, he was grateful for small mercies. As long as Sherlock kept him entertained, he was not going to launch any attacks in Mycroft’s direction.

The issue of the photographic evidence Magnussen held over Sherlock’s head would have to be dealt with of course, but it would at least not be _his_ problem to solve. Lie in the bed of your own making, little brother, he thought grimly.

But as he was about to open his mouth to bid the other man farewell, Magnussen held up his index finger in a pausing gesture, before he reached inside the pocket of his suit and pulled out a white envelope.

“Call me sentimental, but I carry these with me, while waiting for your brother to give me new fodder to use. Would you like to take a look?”

Not waiting for a reply, he opened the envelope and fanned out seven photographs on the table in front of him, for Mycroft to catch glimpses of but not seeing properly unless he actually reached forward. 

“That’s not necessary...” Mycroft began, seeing full well that the content wasn’t anything he was going to enjoy. But Magnussen put a finger on three of the more detailed ones and pushed them forward towards Mycroft who couldn’t look away, despite his reluctance to see this.

“Oh, I insist. They’re quite the work of art,” Magnussen purred.

They were all of Sherlock, his naked torso easily recognisable because of a small scar on his scapula that he had received in his early childhood, caused by Mycroft during one of their very rare physical combats. 

Sherlock’s eyes in the pictures were gleaming, his hands chained to something above his head, lips parted, the very epitome of erotic content and Mycroft by reflex made a swift effort to reach for them, to tear them up and destroy them, piece by piece, as if by doing so would erase the very incident from ever having taken place.

But as if expecting this move, Magnussen withdrew them again hastily, making Mycroft grasp for the empty surface of the table instead. 

Magnussen tutted disapprovingly at his futile attempt.

“Careful, Mr Holmes. They are not for touching, simply looking at. _I_ had the pleasure of touch of course, when they were taken, and from one epicurean to another, that skin is just as soft as it looks, his body as pliant as putty beneath my touch. And the taste...._Yum, yum_.”

He smacked his lips together as if still able to feel the taste and Mycroft visibly shuddered, resisting the urge to simply storm out, leaving this repugnant man in his wake, not caring about showing any loss of temper or signs of weakness.

It was either a hasty exit or the threat of actually turning on Magnussen physically. 

Mycroft never did things like that, resorting to violence himself, but instead finding strength in the power of keeping his calm in the eye of a hurricane, giving others the order of destruction instead. 

But this was hitting far too close to home for comfort and he couldn’t help but feel the twitch of his resolve as it began to crumble, all kinds of murderous thoughts surfacing at the sight of the smirking man in front of him, with his hands on the provocative photos of Mycroft's little brother.

If Magnussen noticed any of this, he didn’t show it, he simply continued to taunt, twisting the proverbial knife even deeper.

“The question not yet asked this evening, Mr Holmes, is where that delicious brother of yours actually is tonight? I sent him one of these as a little reminder of the appetizer he presented me, hoping for him to offer me a taste of the main course as well, but I have not heard a single word from him.”

“_Appetizer_?” Mycroft practically seethed by now, his knuckled turned white as they pressed firmly around the handle of his umbrella. 

“Yes, this was only a foretaste of things to come.”

“Doesn’t look it from the pictures.”

“That’s idea. Appearances are everything in this day and age, so who bothers with real facts? It’s what we _perceive_ to see that matters the most after all. So if that little gnome who shares Sherlock’s rent gets any ideas into that stupid little head of his, these are available to do the rounds for anyone interested in seeing them.”

Things were beginning to make a little more sense to Mycroft suddenly, especially as he now knew that Sherlock had been sent one of these photos as a threat yesterday. 

But he was still unable to see the whole picture clearly. 

Where had Sherlock gone if not to Magnussen? All his actions up to this point would have suggested that Magnussen was the main target and yet, he wasn’t here, and Magnussen clearly had no idea about his whereabouts. 

Why had Sherlock bothered with drugging John Watson if not going after the one man he knew John positively hated? Why simply not just take his trusted companion with him as he usually did? This could not be one of his brother's usual cases, it had to be related to Magnussen somehow.

And just as Mycroft asked himself these questions, it suddenly hit him as if turning on a switch, illuminating a room previously shrouded in shadows and he cursed inwardly over his own inability to figure this out. He should have realised it earlier, but he had stubbornly kept his eyes only on the one thinkable target, forgoing any other candidates.

Someone like the mysterious guest his brother had been going on about ever since meeting him that night at Magnussen’s flat. The one Mycroft had determinedly turned off any interest in, for the sake of the more personal matter of Magnussen and the threat he presented.

Mycroft had not deigned to listen to his brother earlier and had no idea how long Sherlock might have pursued the issue under the radar, but now it was suddenly clear to him that this mystery man was the missing link to everything that had transpired tonight and the probable cause for his brother’s disappearance. 

And unfortunately, the only one with any information about the identity of this unknown individual, was Magnussen.

************ 

As Sherlock woke up, his head was pounding fiercely, as well as his stomach where he had received a full-blown punch straight to the solar plexus which had caused him to actually throw up the meagre contents of his stomach, all over the shoes of his assailant.

This had naturally not soothed the already full-blown temper of Dr Roylott and the next blow had been to the side to his head, the probable cause for his black out. 

He did not remember much after that.

As he now tried to recover, blinking into the darkness that surrounded him, he felt something restricting his movements beyond the mere physical ache of his body.

The beginning of the assault had gone fairly straight-forward and been to his advantage. Sherlock was far nimbler and several pounds lighter than his attacker, not to mention at least fifteen years younger. He also knew how to throw a punch as well as dancing around his assailant to avoid the ones he was trying to deliver. 

His downfall had come on account of a very unexpected turn of events, unavoidable as it had taken him by huge surprise and made him lose his footing sufficiently for Dr Roylott to be able to kick him in the shin, making him lose his balance and stumble. From then on forward it had been more or less a downward spiral to his current state. 

He could still see the thing that had caught him off guard and made him lose his focus on his attacker.

While swiftly passing the large window facing the park outside, keeping his distance from Dr Roylott’s waving fists, a distorted face had suddenly been staring at him from the other side of the glass, mouth wide open, baring a pair of frightful fangs. 

As the unexpected sight had caught him off guard, while at the same time trying to escape a forthcoming attack from his host, his brain had not immediately registered what it was he had seen. 

And after that, there had been no time to ponder the question further as he had mere minutes later received enough blows and punches to render him both injured as well as unconscious. 

But now, when coming back from his comatose state, he realised that the face he had seen, was not that of a terrible gargoyle or monster that his mind, despite its affinity for logical thinking, had first assumed. He blamed the darkness outside, as well as the insufficient lighting of the room for this preposterous idea, accompanied by the element of surprise.

Because what he had seen was actually the face of a full-grown baboon, clinging to the windowpane outside, apparently engaged in the scene taking place inside the room and baring its fangs at the perceived hostile situation it saw on the other side of the glass window.

As Sherlock simultaneously felt relief flushing through his body at this realisation, he also succumbed to the embarrassment for even considering the other rather supernatural alternative he had first assumed. He sheepishly blamed the house and its spooky atmosphere and vowed to never tell about this childish scare to anyone, not even John, if he ever managed to get out of here.

And that’s where his next predicament made itself known. 

Because even if the room he was currently residing in was dark and made it difficult to assess his situation properly, he could still feel the restraints holding him down, even now that his mind had caught up to his current state and wasn’t feeling as dimmed as it initially had felt when brought back to reality.

He was quite clearly tied up, by both hands and feet to what he assumed was a bedpost, even if the room was too dark to actually confirm it. A firm tug at the restraints told him that they were firmly secured, and properly weakened by the punches he had received, as well as the all-consuming pain to the left side of his head, he realised that he wasn’t going to be able to free himself without the assistance of another person.

It was in these situations where John had always been so handy to have as a reliable companion. While the doctor's strength wasn’t in the logical windings of the brain department where Sherlock excelled, he was incomparably always trustworthy with assisting Sherlock in getting out of tricky situations like this. 

And how had he repaid that invaluable gift?

By going behind his trusted friend’s back, drugging him into sedation and then left without so much as a word to inform John of his plans. 

It was frankly inexcusable and for the first time since taking on the case that Mycroft had assigned to him, he actually regretted a lot of his actions from the previous couple of days. Not only because he began to realise that he had no way of escaping whatever Dr Roylott had in store for him, without any assistance, but also because he had let down one of the people that mattered the most to him. 

Trying to shake these morose ideas from his head, as they were doing nothing to aid his current predicament, he felt a wave of nausea hitting him and realised that any sudden head movements were not advisable at the moment.

So instead he forced himself to calm down, trying to focus on what to do next and not cause any more discomfort to his body than absolutely necessary.

Just as he felt the nausea beginning to subside, his ear caught a strange sound coming from somewhere above his head and without moving anything else, he turned his eyes to the ceiling trying to locate the source.

Naturally he saw nothing, the room was still as pitch dark as previously and he wondered if he had perhaps imagined the whole thing. Old houses did after all make all kinds of strange sounds.

But then he heard it again and this time it was much clearer, no need to prick his ears to recognise what it was.

It was the distinct sound of someone whistling.


	11. Unholy alliance

John was positively fuming while alternating between starting to pack his meagre belongs into a bag and leave, or simply go down the much more immature route and destroy some of Sherlock’s belongings before leaving, just out of pure retaliation and a sense of well-deserved vengefulness. 

To his displeasure, none of these options gave him any satisfaction though, not even when moving on from theory to action by throwing a few shirts down on his bed as if to pack them in a suitcase, or snatching Sherlock’s very expensive headphones down from the bison skull and dumping them in the bin. 

His anger didn’t dissipate, his hurt didn’t lessen, all it did was to make him despair even more for not managing to feel any better. His anger still fumed inside of him, combined with the hurt that was clawing away at his insides in an endless tortuous circle.

What annoyed him the most was the feeling of worry attempting to seep into his anger, as if he should waste his time worrying about a person who had betrayed him in the most deceitful way possible. Sherlock had bloody _drugged_ him! 

And for what? To run after Charles Magnussen? 

Even if John technically realised that Sherlock hardly was genuinely interested in the despicable reptile of a man they were targeting at the moment, it was the way Sherlock had gone about trying to solve the case that angered him the most. 

Because it seemed every method was fair game in Sherlock’s opinion and if it meant going well and beyond duty and offer himself to the blackmailer sexually, that was apparently ok as well. But it was far from ok with John. There were lines you simply didn’t cross, not even for a case, and sleeping with the enemy was certainly one of those. 

But while fuming at the very thought of Sherlock’s naked body touched by the unpleasant hands of the Danish media mogul, John did also recall the hint of worry he had seen in Mycroft’s eyes before he had thrown him out earlier this evening, when refusing to help him locate his brother.

Mycroft claimed the car had not been sent by Magnussen, but what else could Sherlock have been up to if not chasing after his latest target of interest? John knew for a fact that he had no other cases going at the moment. 

As the very name of Charles Magnussen was now connected to all kinds of jealous resentment, it made him grit his teeth in even more bitter anger as he once again realised that there were few other options for Sherlock’s disappearance.

But another thought was just as persistently nagging at the back of his head while he was fighting his feelings of rage. What if Sherlock truly was in danger? 

Could John really live with himself if not coming to Sherlock’s aid if something actually happened to him? 

And as this idea crossed his mind for the millionth time he knew that the answer wasn’t going to change, however much he wished to hang onto his anger instead of facing the humiliation of trying to rescue a man that had deceived him, as well as lied to his face. 

He knew he wasn’t going to let Sherlock end up harmed without at least trying to prevent it, however much it chagrined him to admit this. 

The question was, how was he going to help Sherlock if he had no idea where he was?

There was always the option of reaching out to Mycroft of course, but even the omnipotent Government official had seemed to be at a loss.  
And considering how very rudely John had thrown him out mere hours ago, Sherlock’s brother was hardly going to eagerly extend any helping hands at the moment. 

Perhaps he could call Lestrade and ask him if he knew anything? But most likely the Detective Inspector would be as clueless as the rest of them. 

Besides, if Sherlock had been called away on a case for Scotland Yard, John would have been invited as well. The invitations from Lestrade was always extended to him these days, especially now that people seemed to realise that he and Sherlock were a couple and came as a pair, not only as the expert and his trustworthy fanboy sidekick. 

It hadn’t been expressed in as many words that the information about their status was now official, but people apparently had a knack for figuring things out anyway.

John had once caught the Detective Inspector watching the two of them with a forlorn look on his face, when he thought no one was looking, but at least he didn’t do anything more than treat their budding relationship with outmost respect, unlike of lot of the other Yarders who thought that Sherlock must have put a spell on John to make him lose his senses. 

Perhaps they hadn’t been too far off with that idea. Right now the perception that he had followed Sherlock around like a lovesick teenager only to be tricked like some hapless idiot, did hurt his pride quite a bit. 

Pushing those feelings aside for the moment, he knew he had to focus on the task at hand and find Sherlock. Whatever else he had in store for the detective, it would have to wait. 

It was either that or simply leave straight away, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to just do that, however tempting such an alternative was. Not without at least letting Sherlock know how disappointed he was. 

As Donovan had always claimed, Sherlock had the potential to one day be the biggest mistake John Watson ever made and right now he was pretty damn close to agreeing with her. But be that as it may, he had to find the man first so he could tell him this to his face. 

After that, he could walk away if he wanted to.

************ 

After having suffered the humiliating task of telling Magnussen as much as he could without giving himself and his original intentions away too much, in order to gain information about the mysterious Dr Grimesby Roylott, Mycroft was almost as annoyed with Sherlock as John was.

It had been difficult to come up with a plausible explanation for why Sherlock had possibly gone off in a car sent by a guest he had only met very briefly at Magnussen’s flat, but apparently Magnussen wasn’t as puzzled by this as Mycroft had first assumed.

“Oh, yes. Dr Roylott did breach the subject with me just the other day. Said that someone fitting the description enough for me to realise who it was, had been making inquiries about him. He wasn’t particularly pleased by this, but I think I know enough about your charming little brother to realise that he hardly cares about the opinions of others if he is intrigued enough by someone. He is so refreshingly recklessness in that regard, seems to be drawn to danger in a most irresponsible fashion.”

As if savouring a particularly delectable dish, Magnussen practically purred when talking about Sherlock, but the final part of his speech didn't go unnoticed.

“Is Dr Roylott a dangerous man then?” Mycroft asked without letting on how worried he was.

Magnussen feigned to ponder this question, as if the idea had never crossed his mind before. It was just ridiculous affectations and it annoyed Mycroft that the other man seemed to be playing a game with all of them, despite his own efforts to remain in control.

“No, I wouldn’t say so,” Magnussen finally offered. “But he is _very_ eccentric and has a bad temper I’m afraid. If thoroughly crossed he could get volatile, I suppose. I think it depends on what your brother is planning to do with him.”

“What is it that _you_ normally do with Dr Roylott?” 

Magnussen made an indifferent shrug, as if the question wasn’t worth to consider.

“Conducting business, nothing exciting at all. I’m sure it’s not even close to the things he gets up to with other associates. But I agree that it would be wise to pay him a visit if you think your brother has decided to go off with him in his car. I much prefer Sherlock to play with _me_ rather than with other people. I wouldn’t want someone else to get all the fun with him before I’ve had the proper chance to get a taste of my own.”

This earned him an icy glare.

“Oh, I think you’ve had enough already, Mr Magnussen.”

A predatory gleam in the other man’s eyes told Mycroft how much Magnussen enjoyed provoking him by pushing all the buttons he could, just to get a reaction from him, and Mycroft had to make every effort available to not let his true emotions show. 

He needed Magnussen to take him to Dr Roylott after all. Whatever retaliation his mind could conjure up in the meantime, it would have to wait until afterwards, when Sherlock was back safe and sound. 

But he did agree with Magnussen on one thing: it was much more preferable to be on the team that dictated the rules of the game, rather than being the one others toyed with, for sheer amusement.

It didn’t really come as a surprise when Magnussen insisted on joining Mycroft, given the man’s interest in his brother, and the unexpected turn this whole situation had taken. And as he was the provider of the information necessary to solve the riddle of Sherlock’s likely destination, there was not much Mycroft could do to prevent Magnussen from coming along.

As they were exiting the restaurant, an idea hit him that might at least encourage the media mogul to take his own vehicle instead of sharing one, and thereby offering Mycroft a much needed break from his company. 

Even if time was of importance, Mycroft still decided that this particular little detour was essential if it meant that he would succeed in ridding himself of Magnussen’s presence. 

Granted, it would gain him another companion he wasn’t very keen on sharing the space of his car with at the moment, but at least that person was much more preferable than the Dane.

“We’re making a stop at my brother’s flat to pick someone up who will be interested in coming along,” he said coolly, secretly wishing that this actually was the case. Considering John Watson’s state of mind when last seeing him, it wasn’t a given that he would be interested in joining them. 

Dr Watson thrived on danger almost as much as Sherlock did, albeit for different reasons, and a good old-fashioned impromptu visit to a real criminal’s lair was likely a huge temptation for a man with his inclinations. But still, even if the good doctor sometimes seemed to be a masochist when persistently remaining by Sherlock’s side, he was also a proud man and the question was if this last incident of being drugged had perhaps been the final straw regarding his patience. 

Still, Mycroft figured it was worth the effort to ask him to join them if it meant getting rid of Magnussen. Magnussen was hardly going to tolerate the presence of Dr Watson and would therefore likely suggest moving in different vehicles. 

As predicted, the Danish media man immediately seemed to realise who they were going to pick up, as Mycroft shrewdly had counted on, but to his immense disappointment Magnussen didn’t say anything to indicate that he wasn’t prepared to share a car with his supposed rival. 

Perhaps he didn’t consider Dr Watson to be a true rival. He most certainly didn’t look at him as a person of any importance. Despite his apparent displeasure earlier this evening, Magnussen didn’t make any complaints about the man now.

Mycroft refrained from pinching the bridge of his nose while he gave his driver the order to take them to Baker Street. This felt like the beginning of something that had already been quite a terrible evening.

The drive over to Baker street was more or less made in silence, but as they approached, Magnussen finally spoke. 

“We should switch vehicles. Taking the car to our destination is going to take some time and I have a much faster method of transportation at my disposal, “he said without turning away from the window he had been looking through during the whole journey. He was sitting as far away from Mycroft as possible, although if that was intentional was difficult to say. It felt like it should have been the other way around, with Mycroft shying away from his presence, but Magnussen had apparently beaten him to the punch.

“If you mean a helicopter, I can have one arranged as well,” Mycroft tried, even if he realised that it would probably take him much longer to do so. Deciding that sometimes it was better to just acknowledge a situation for what it was, he turned around and agreed that Magnussen’s offer might be more efficient. “If you have one available, it might be more convenient to take yours.” 

He wasn’t after all willing to let more time go to waste on account of his own pride. 

As the car rolled up to the curb, Mycroft made his excuses and began to exit the car, leaving Magnussen behind.

“As the inhabitant I’m interest in, is not inside at the moment, there is no reason for me to join you,” Magnussen said airily, as if he had been invited to begin with. 

Mycroft decided to merely acknowledge this with a nod. Far better if the man remained where he was. Who knew in what mood John was by now? The sight of Magnussen was hardly going to improve it.

If he was even still inside the flat. There was a risk he had simply left, specially considering his flaring temper.

Mycroft was already starting to regret his previous decision to bring John Watson along. What use could he possibly offer, more than to cause a scene when faced with Magnussen? Maybe Mycroft should have endured his present predicament and allowed for things to be as they were?

But, as he had made this choice already, there was no going back on it now, so reluctantly he stepped out of the car and approached the door. No use regretting decisions he was unable to take back. 

As he stepped up, he quietly brazed himself for whatever awaited him behind the ordinary looking facade.

He had a key of course, but it seemed strange to point that detail out to Magnussen who no doubt was watching him from the back of the car, so instead he promptly rang the doorbell, like any normal citizen, sibling or not, would do.

He had to press the bell two times before the door was slammed open, the surprisingly wild features of John Watson staring at him from inside the darkened hallway.

He looked like a man who had spent the last couple of hours pacing frantically back and forth, clutching at his hair. The normally rather neat haircut was sticking out at all angles, and he seemed rather wired up. 

This was normally Sherlock’s role, playing the erratic one, but they were all doomed to act out of their comfort zones tonight apparently.

“Mycroft?!” 

There was a hint of relief in the doctor’s voice that was rather surprising considering the circumstances under which they had parted earlier. 

Before Mycroft managed to open his mouth, John had grabbed him by his arms and with a wild stare looked him straight in the eye. 

The changeability of this man was quite astonishing considering how calm he usually seemed whenever Mycroft encountered him otherwise. Perhaps Sherlock’s influence was beginning to rub off on him in a negative way. Sherlock was after all famous for being mercurial and utterly unpredictable, it was the very reason why was Mycroft standing here in the chilly evening air, stuck between a man he couldn’t stand and a man he wasn’t particularly fond of but tolerated because his brother wanted him to.

If not so worried about said brother, he would hardly have done any of this to begin with. 

With open displeasure, he shrugged himself out of the other man's frenetic grip.

“Have you located him? Is he alright?” John said, trying to come off as passably calm but fooling no one. 

“Well, erm, no....” Mycroft began, very aware of the spectator following their every movement from the anonymity behind the tinted windows of the car. “Perhaps we should go inside for a minute...?”

“_Why_? Has something happened?”

Mycroft resisted the impulse to reach out and placate the doctor with a calming hand. He abhorred physical contact almost as much as he hated someone making a scene. This was just another horrible situation aamong many this evening that he would simply have to endure before it was all over.

“I have in fact found a good lead and it ....might please you that he isn’t with Mr Magnussen as we both initially suspected. So that’s the good news. But...” 

He despised how ineloquent he sounded, he very seldom felt this out of his depth, always being the man with a well-hatched plan prepared for every eventuality. But this was a matter he wasn’t used to deal with. The ridiculousness of the baser emotions of humans, such as jealousy, and pride, scorned feelings and rejection made him feel completely out of his element and it only resulted in him growing even angrier with Sherlock for dropping such a mess in his lap to deal with. 

If his little brother had been present, he would probably had made a comment about returning the favour. None of this would have happened if Mycroft hadn’t insisted on pimping him out in the first place. 

And realising the truthfulness in such a statement, there really wasn’t anything more for Mycroft to do about this situation right now, beyond swallowing this bitter pill and get on with the evening, hopefully locate Sherlock within a reasonable timeframe and then count the losses afterwards. 

He would hardly be able to use Sherlock against Magnussen after tonight, too much information was out in the open and Sherlock’s identity as well as his relationship status were no longer a well-kept secret. 

Besides, Magnussen had his own hold over Sherlock now, so no matter how this evening progressed, the Magnussen dilemma was very much still an unresolved predicament, just with an unexpected twist to it. 

“But what?” John interrupted Mycroft’s thoughts, a frown on his already worried features.

“Well. The reason why I know he isn’t with Magnussen is because the man himself told me so. Together we have managed to come up with a clue though, and even if I normally wouldn’t bother chasing after my brother on one of his hairbrained schemes, I had to consider that Magnussen is now a more active participant in this game than what we initially realised, and he also is very interested in locating Sherlock now that he knows a little more about where he went tonight, so I might think it is in our best interest to join him. “

At first there was only silence, and Mycroft was just about to repeat his words, a shorter version of them, if they had somehow managed to miss their mark, when the doctor sparked back to life from his initial shock.

“_Join Magnussen?!_” he spluttered, his eyes widened in astonishment.

“He is sitting in the car, waiting for us, so please keep your voice down, Dr Watson.” 

Mycroft gave the frantic man in front of him a stern look but then yielded a little bit when he considered the circumstances. 

“I realise that this evening has been one shock after another for you. It hasn’t been particularly pleasant for me either. But our main focus right now is to locate my brother and do as much damage control as we possible can. Whatever you choose to do afterwards is your own business, I’m not getting involved in any of it. But right now, all I want is for us to find him before he does anything even more idiotic. If that’s even possible anymore. “

John’s frown deepened and for a second it looked like he was going to slam the door shut in Mycroft’s face and just wash his hands off the whole thing. A part of Mycroft wouldn’t blame if he made that decision.

But then, he seemed to come to a conclusion, determination settling in his eyes.

“I’ll just go and get my coat,” he said curtly and disappeared inside, leaving the door slightly ajar in his wake.

_And your gun, no doubt_, Mycroft thought grimly.

He wasn’t sure if bringing a weapon was a particularly good idea, especially considering that John was going to spend some time in the company of Magnussen, who was carrying an envelope of suggestive pictures of Sherlock inside his pocket, ready to be whipped out at any inopportune moment. There could be blood shed before they had even left the city.

On the other hand, neither Mycroft nor Magnussen, to his knowledge, had any weapons with them and this Dr Roylott was not the most amiable man apparently, so maybe it was good if one of them could fend for them if necessary.

He wondered if he should perhaps try to warn John about what Magnussen had in his possession, to save him from yet another shock. But on the other hand, it would be unnecessary to mention it if Magnussen decided to never bring attention to the pictures he had in his possession.

No, it was better to wait and deal with the situation when and if it arose. 

Secretly he cursed his brother for the umptieth time this evening for putting him in this uncomfortable position, but his features said nothing about his inner feelings and when John returned a moment later he simply walked over to the car and opened the door, making sure that he was seated in the middle so he could put at least a little distance between the two other men.

Without looking at either of them, he made the introductions.

“Mr Magnussen, this is Dr John Watson, Dr Watson, meet Mr Charles Magnussen. Dr Watson is Sherlock’s flatmate and Mr Magnussen is....an acquaintance of mine." Both John as well as Magnussen gave him a dubious look at this description but Mycroft ignored it and continued unfaced. "As we are now all properly introduced, I suggest we make it to your helicopter, Mr Magnussen. Have you alerted your staff that we are coming?”

Without replying, Magnussen leaned over Mycroft to take a proper look at the newcomer. He didn’t extend a hand or greet him, he just gave John a thorough one over, then leaned back in his seat again.

“Drive to CAM headquarters, it’s waiting at the helipad on the roof.” 

The chauffeur was Mycroft’s so he waited for his employer to confirm the order. When Mycroft gave him a short nod he started the car and they were off.

************ 

At first Sherlock couldn’t make anything out in the darkness. Just that eerie whistling sound. It came two times in a row, like someone trying to catch the attention of a pet. Hopefully not the cheetah. But it seemed unlikely, whistling after a cheetah looked like playing with unnecessary danger even for a madman like Grimesby Roylott.

Then it became quiet again and he waited, not exactly sure of what, but his captor was hardly going to leave him tied up like this forever, was he.

But just as he was about to consider that nothing more was going to happen at the moment, his eyes, having adjusted themselves to the darkness, noticed movement straight above his head.

At first he couldn’t fathom what it was that his eyes were seeing. 

It looked like a bell strap dangling over him, one of those old-fashioned designs that people had used when a household still consisted of master and servant. It seemed so outdated and yet perfectly in line with the rest of the house, that his logic reached the conclusion that it was indeed a bell strap and nothing more. 

The detail that pulled him out of this assumption was the fact that the bell strap was actually moving out of its own accord and was distinctly progressing closer towards him.

Trying to squint made no difference, it was still too dark to tell what it was, but he could clearly see that whatever it was, it was slowly making its way down above his head. 

With his mind still trying to figure out what exactly he was looking at, it, whatever it was, suddenly dropped from the ceiling, landing next to his face. And as it coiled up in a distinct position before beginning to slither towards him, it was the movements that gave him the final clues as to what he was actually seeing.

It was a snake.

He didn’t fear snakes per say. He had collected the odd number of adders in his childhood, and they fascinated him rather than frightened him. 

But as this was a specimen belonging to Dr Roylott, it was assumingly something more than a simple adder. 

Considering the cheetah and the baboon in the park outside the house, this was likely of a similar category. Exotic and lethal, probably poisonous. And that idea, joint with the fact that he was tied up to a bed with no way of defending himself, was what sent chills down his spine. 

Quickly he ransacked his brain of what little he knew about snakes and how to avoid getting bitten. 

Rule number one was obviously not to provoke them, but who knew what Dr Roylott had done to this one before sending it in here. He didn’t even know how it had entered the room in the first place. Presumably there was an entry from the ceiling or high up on the wall, a ventilation hatch perhaps. It didn’t really matter, what mattered right now was how he was going to avoid getting attacked.

As he was lying as still as possible, even trying to breathe without moving a muscle, he saw how the snake made its way towards him and as it had landed so close to him, it didn’t take more than a few seconds before he felt the warm, somewhat dry texture of scales against his skin. 

He bit down on the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from flinching as the snake made its way across his exposed throat. 

If he had deigned to believe in a higher power or simply the fortunes of luck, he would have sent a prayer for the snake to just slither across him like any other hindrance in its path and then move on, but as he was a pragmatic man who didn't believe in luck or divinity, he simply closed his eyes and held his breath while the unpleasant sensation of snake scales made its way over his motionless body. 

It took every fibre of his being not to trash against his confinements, trying to escape, knowing how hopeless it was. It was even tempting to call out the name of his captor, trying to get his attention. Bargaining with a human was much easier than doing so with an animal, however depraved humans sometimes were. Surely there was something to be said to convince Dr Roylott to remove the snake? If just given the chance.

As he finally felt the tail of the snake slither off him, he permitted a deep breath leave his lips, exhaling and then inhaling as if gasping for air, realising that it was the only way his body could respond to the shock he had just had. 

But just as he allowed himself the luxury of oxygen to fill his lungs once more, he felt a distinct pain pierce his hand and this time no amount of effort could hold back the cry of both fear and pain that escaped him as he felt the snake’s fangs dig deeper into his skin, pumping venom into his bloodstream while doing so.

As the echo of his scream bounced against the dark walls of the locked-up room, he realised that there was nothing more he could do but let out whatever feelings he had left inside of him as comprehension hit him that his fate was now irrevocably sealed.


	12. The eleventh hour

The snake, after having buried its fangs into his hand, simply let go and slithered away, like a killer exiting a crime scene. It most probably didn’t leave the bed but as it was too dark to see, Sherlock couldn’t tell if it curled up close to his feet or somewhere else. 

And it didn’t matter. ‘

Once bitten, the fear of being so again simply disappeared. There was no more damage to be done. 

He could feel his hand pulsating with actual pain and could imagine how the venom made its way through his veins like gasoline on fire, ruthless and brutal in its path, no stopping it once ignited. 

The only question was how fast it was going to kill him. 

He held no hope picturing any other ending to this scenario than his own approaching demise. 

The irony that he was in huge part to blame for it himself, wasn’t lost on him. There had been many paths he could have chosen along the way where he had most decidedly made the wrong choice, but looking back on his life, this could be said to be a recurring feature, even if he had seldom regretted any of it afterwards.   
It was pointless to regret actions he could not do undone, but in this situation he could recognise that it wasn’t the snake bite alone that caused an uncomfortable stinging sensation inside of him. 

He was allowed to wallow a little bit surely?   
Being kept prisoner tied up to a bed in the reclusive house of a mad man, his only companion a snake who had just bitten him and thereby signed his own death warrant, no one knowing where he was, probably ending up being one of those mysteries that he himself was so fond of trying to solve. That certainly warranted some self-pity.

He thought about ending up as another number in the statistics of missing people who never were seen or heard of again. And without being around himself, who would be able to solve it?

He could think of only a few people interested in looking for him anyway and with the exception of Mycroft, the others did not have the capacity to figure out what had happened to him. This particular scenario would prove to be difficult even for his brother. Mycroft had a lot of intel and resources at his disposal but lacked the imagination required to see something like this playing out. It was too outlandish for someone of his pragmatic way of thinking. 

Besides, even if he eventually did, it would be too late by then. It was plausible that he managed to locate Dr Roylott, if he deigned to involve Magnussen in his search, but by then Sherlock would be disposed of and gone, and Mycroft would never know for sure what had happened to his younger brother.

That idea felt strangely unnerving, despite knowing that it didn’t matter in the long run. He would not be around to see who grieved his disappearance or not, he would not be the one left behind forever wondering. 

But John would and that made the stinging sensation inside of him increase even more when thinking about it. So he decided not to, and just accept his fate, realising that it would soon be over anyway.

The only unknown variables were how painful his death was going to be and the duration of time before he drew his last breath. If he hadn’t been so personally involved in the end result it would have been an interesting experiment to conduct. As it was now, it was simply the tragic result of very unexpected circumstances and unfortunately unchangeable. There was nothing he could do to alter any of it.

There was a sound to his left and suddenly light flooded from a door opening and the expected silhouette of Dr Roylott appeared on the threshold. 

_Great, here to gloat apparently_, Sherlock thought grimly. 

He wasn’t sure if the company was appreciated or not. 

Ever since meeting John, companionship had shown its advances against the solitude he had preferred earlier in life, even if the company came in the shape of a murderer. Perhaps it could help him pass the time instead of fretting about how long until he died. 

He didn’t feel like he was dying, not yet, and that was another strange experience he would gladly have scribbled down if he had had any further use for such knowledge. Seemed pretty pointless right now though.

Dr Roylott walked over to the bed but stopped a few steps away, looking down at Sherlock’s helpless form. He had his hands behind his back, standing in a relaxed posture, as if calmly watching something mildly interesting and completely inconsequential. In the light coming from the still open door, Sherlock could see the hint of a smile on his features. 

Considering how distorted that face had been earlier, full of ramping rage, it was surprising that the man knew how to look serene, but assumingly he was satisfied with his accomplishments and relished the feeling.

He tilted his head slightly before he spoke, not completely unlike the way a reptile would, with a jerky movement that made him seem more resembling animal form than a human. 

“I see you met Nagaina. I brought her from India a few years ago, named her after the protagonist in Riki Tiki Tavi. She is just as vicious as her namesake, so no regrets about bringing her here and introducing her to those in need of making her acquaintance.”

Despite the effort, Sherlock couldn’t resist answering back.

“As far as I remember, her namesake died in the end.” 

He had read the book as a child and it surprised him that he still remembered it, usually childhood reminiscences were not something he indulged in or made the space for in his neatly ordered brain capacity. 

The smile on his captor’s lips grew into a full-blown grin. He looked feral now.

“Well, this version is not dying for many years yet.”

The hands Dr Roylott had been keeping hidden behind his back now came forth, holding a small burlap sack as well as stick with a noose at the end of it.

“She seldom disappoints when it comes to doing what is required of her, and most victims, like yourself, Mr Holmes, so helpfully provide me with evidence in the form of a scream to let me know when the deed had been done.”

“Well, it was quite painful,” Sherlock muttered, wanting to reach out to touch the wound, the restraints preventing him from doing so. It pulsated and he could feel how swollen his hand had become.

As if knowing Sherlock’s intentions, Dr Roylott looked down at the wound as well.

“So I’ve been told. And yet it’s nothing compared to the agonies you’ll be in, an hour from now, when the venom will begin to paralyse your system from the inside. Of course, your speech will be one of the first things to go, so not much screaming by then.”

He stepped over to the end of the bed, reached the stick out and effortlessly captured the snake by the noose and swiftly put it in the burlap sack. It was the movement of someone used to handling the snake, effortlessly and in full control. 

Once safely secured, he turned towards Sherlock again.

“Remember how cocky you where earlier this evening? People like you who strut around gloating, more pride than actual sense between their ears. It’s always particularly enjoyable to take you lot down, because there is always a different tone by the end on the evening. Some of you even beg for mercy, in vain I might add, I can’t and won’t do anything to save you. “

Sherlock couldn’t resist rolling his eyes.

“I haven’t begged for mercy in my life, it would be a shame to start now, seeing as it is just about to end.”

“That’s the spirit, Mr Holmes. Realise when your number is up and face it like a man.”

“So what happens now? You just sit here and watch me die?”

Dr Roylott stepped up to the head of the bed again and met his eyes, the smile still playing on his lips slightly. It was preferable to the full-blown grin, at least this didn’t make him look demented.

“No, after having done so a few times with other people, I don’t find it quite as entertaining to watch people die anymore. Especially considering the timeframe. I guess that’s one of her flaws, her venom works so slowly. Her predecessor was much quicker but unfortunately too unreliable.” He shrugged his shoulder, seemingly talking more to himself than to Sherlock, his eyes having already wandered away from Sherlock’s face. “But you can’t have everything. I need a snake that can be easily handled, and none of the other animals in my little menagerie are as accommodating as she is. As to your question, I’ll leave you to your own devices now, no need for any more socialising.”

“Sorry to be unable to provide any entertainment value at this last hour,” Sherlock muttered.

Dr Roylott merely snorted. 

“Goodbye, Mr Holmes. “

Feeling a strange reluctance to being left alone, despite the unpleasant company, Sherlock grasped at straws to make the other man stay a little longer. He didn’t particularly look forward to being left with only his own thoughts to keep him occupied, just waiting for the inevitable. 

Mycroft had always claimed that he was too impatient, and perhaps he was, even in this situation, preferring his death to come quickly instead of lingering agonisingly slow at the cusp of it.

“What will you tell Magnussen?” he said, in an effort of delaying the doctor in his departure. 

Magnussen wasn’t a real issue of his, but Dr Roylott was a business associate to the man after all, Sherlock’s disappearance was bound to be discussed between them at some point.

But Dr Roylott did not seem concerned about this.

“He won’t find out,” he simply stated.

Stubbornly Sherlock tried again.

“He will come looking for me sooner or later. He is hooked enough to me to not simply lose interest. And unlike everyone else, he knows the connection between the three of us.”

The doctor made an indifferent shrug with his shoulders.

“Like I said, he won’t know. There will be no trace of you ever having been here after tonight. So, while I’m sure he is going to look for you, thinking more with his cock than with common sense, he will search in vain and eventually he’ll move on. You’re the flavour of the month now, but those things, they always wane after a while.”

Sherlock had already figured this out but it still made his stomach churn uncomfortably when hearing it spoken out loud. 

Despite being utterly despicable, Magnussen had been his best chance of eventually being found, even if being dead by then. 

As previously stated by Dr Roylott himself, he had apparently done this before and knew how to deal with the aftermath, never raising any suspicion.

If he hadn’t been in the situation he was in right now, Sherlock could almost have admired it a little bit. 

This man was a cold-blooded killer, far worse than any of the animals he kept, and he had managed to fly under the radar with his deeds for who knew how long.   
At this day and age, with surveillance at every corner, DNA data bases and people unable to move without leaving any sort of trace, physical or technological, it was quite an impressive feat. Maybe it helped that he seemed to be living the life of a Victorian recluse out here in the wilderness where no one seemed interested in looking too closely at the doings of an obvious eccentric. 

It was the perfect cover for someone who had the inclinations Dr Roylott had.

“Was there ever a chance of me getting out of here alive?” Sherlock asked as his captor began to turn his back on him, ready to leave.

Dr Roylott stopped for a second, contemplating this question.

“Hm, with your attitude, probably not. You’re one of those who think too highly of yourself, it’s that cockiness of yours that landed you in this mess to begin with. But, hypothetically yes, a warning, if properly accepted, might have sufficed. You chose not to listen, thereby signing your own fate.”

“You and your snake certainly had nothing to do with it...,” Sherlock grumbled but Dr Roylott was already walking away again.

“Bye, Mr Holmes. Enjoy your last hours, by the sweat beginning to break out on your forehead, I see that it has already started to inconvenience you. “

And with that he closed the door and left Sherlock behind in the dark, indeed feeling sweat breaking out as his body was beginning to cramp from the pain. 

While clenching his teeth to prevent him from crying out in agony, trashing against his confines, he desperately wondered how long until he drew his last breath.

************ 

If being trapped in the backseat of a car between two men who utterly despised one another, had been bad enough, it still wasn’t anything compared to being cramped up in the even smaller confines of a helicopter, suffering a terrible headache by now, a huge desire to throttle Sherlock once getting his hands on him, as well as feeling a little queasy from the way the aircraft shifted and turned in the air.

Mycroft had always been prone to slight nausea whenever traveling by air, one of the reasons why he seldom travelled if avoided, and adding these particular circumstance into the mix, he was beginning to feel like this might well be one of the worst nights experienced since Sherlock decided to stop using drugs. 

That the source of his discomfort so often turned out to be his own little brother made him silently swear to himself while trying to look straight ahead and ignore the hostility rising between his fellow passengers. 

Naturally Dr Watson had been unable to keep quiet for long once Magnussen had dropped a remark about Sherlock and his mischievous antics. 

Despite both men knowing who the other was and assumingly what sort of relation Sherlock had to each man, they had up until then pretended to be ignorant of the subject, just stewing in quiet resentment towards each other. But once that first seemingly off-hand remark by Magnussen had ignited the first spark, John was more than willing to fuel the fire even more by lashing out.

Mycroft silently prayed that Magnussen at least would have the common sense to keep his photos of Sherlock to himself, especially considering that they were all sitting in a helicopter that was already jittery to begin with. He held no doubt that, if provoked sufficiently, John would resort to physical violence and where would that lead them? Worst case scenario was a full-blown crash down a field in the middle of nowhere, and if possible, he wished to avoid such a humiliating fate to an otherwise distinguished existence. It would hardly benefit Magnussen to end his days in such a scenario either. 

But despite managing to keep the photos hidden inside his pocket, there were other ways to provoke if one wanted to, and apparently the media mogul was jealous enough of John’s perceived position in Sherlock’s life to stoop to such tactics. 

Soon enough John erupted, clenching his fists while glaring with fire in his eyes at the other man.

“He isn’t interested you know. It is all just a game to him,” he seethed.

Magnussen gave him a superior look over the rim of his glasses.

“Speaking from experience? Has he told you that himself? I don’t see him by your side either. Quite the contrary, he seems to be flying under everyone’s radar tonight.” 

John didn’t respond to that and Mycroft tried to shoot him a warning look, ordering him to remain quiet, but naturally Magnussen was not as easily silenced.

“I think we can agree that dear little Sherlock is a person who runs by his own agenda and you have no idea how to deal with someone like that, Dr Watson.”

John immediately lashed out.

“And you do, do you? I _live_ with him, I think I know him far better than anyone else here!”

Magnussen tutted at that.

“You wish that you did, but let’s face it, someone like him is always going to be far out of your league. It’s not meant to insult, it’s plain fact. You have no idea how to keep up.”

“And what do you know of it? You're only interest in him is to get him into your bed. You don’t even know him, you have no idea what our life consists of, what we have, who we are. ”

“I know more than you realise, and I think you’re hankering for someone clearly out of your reach. It’s very convenient to have another person who shares the rent and keeps you company during the otherwise lonely evenings, but beyond that, I can’t picture him being even remotely interested in anything else. Even if I recognise your wish for something more. Incidentally I do too and unlike you, _I_ intend to have it.”

John’s nostrils flared and Mycroft decided that unless the imminent threat of a fist flying through the air would become reality, he had to intervene.

“Gentlemen, please. I have no intention listening to a discussion befitting a pair of stray dogs fighting over a bone, especially as the subject matter is my own brother. Whatever differences you might have, let’s leave it for the time being and focus on the task at hand. And for further information, no one knows Sherlock Holmes better than I do and my advice to you both is to stay as far away from him as humanly possible, not for his sake but for your own. The man has been trouble on two legs ever since first gracing our nursery and he has never grown out of it, despite my endless efforts to tame him. Hence, that’s why I’m sitting here instead of enjoying a fine glass of Laphroaig in my own sitting room, undisturbed and content. “

John shot him an angry glare.

“You’re the one who asked me to come in the first place, Mycroft. I could have enjoyed myself elsewhere as well, you know.”

Mycroft arched an eyebrow at this ludicrous claim but refrained from uttering the scathing remark that initially came to mind. Even if Magnussen was out on thin ice with his comments, there was a grain of truth to John being far too naïve regarding Sherlock, and look where it had landed him – drugged up and betrayed by his supposed lover, just as clueless about his whereabouts as the rest of them, and utterly humiliated to boot. And whatever he claimed, John Watson had no other wish but to be just where he was right now, looking for Sherlock. It was what he decided to do once he found him that was still uncertain.

Mycroft knew that Sherlock intentions weren’t as bad as they appeared, he cared very much for his doctor companion and would mourn the loss of him if it came to that. 

But he was still utterly clueless on how to conduct a proper relationship with another human being, not taking their wishes and needs into consideration, and that side was something John apparently had decided to ignore for far too long, probably hoping to be the one who one day managed to change Sherlock into a better man. 

By Mycroft’s experience, that was a mission impossible and despite his own efforts, he had long ago given up any pretences of trying to accomplish such a result.   
Resigned to the knowledge that he was going to be monitoring his brother for the rest of his life had long ago cemented itself within him and despite Sherlock positively hating that sort of overwhelming control, Mycroft was glad he had that option available. 

He shuddered to think what his brother might have done if no one had been there to keep a close watch over him. He would probably be dead or locked up somewhere if not for Mycroft’s constant hovering.

John Watson had made a good effort to share his burden, and for a while it had been working reasonably well, but considering this evening’s events, he had clearly failed that mission spectacularly and allowed Sherlock to play him for a fool. The outcome of this was difficult to tell, but it would not be swept under the rug by anyone involved.

He glanced over at Magnussen who had leaned back in his seat again, clearly pleased with his effort to rile the military doctor out of his stubborn rigidness. It was difficult to say who was the more childish one, and Mycroft still marvelled over how something as banal as jealousy so easily turned reasonable men into petty and spiteful beings. He felt certain his brother would have shared that view if he had been present.

During his talk with Magnussen at the restaurant earlier, he had tried to pry into a more detailed description about the man they were about to meet, but Magnussen had been very secretive and not very helpful in that regard. 

The only thing he had divulged had been that Dr Grimesby Roylott was a bit of an eccentric, had a bad temper if provoked and when not conducting business, lived more or less like a recluse at Stoke Moran which was the name of the place where they were now headed. 

Naturally Mycroft had not settled for this unsatisfying description but had taken matters into his own hands, or rather Anthea’s capable ones, by asking and receiving further information on his phone while riding in the car to pick up John Watson.

Unfortunately, the information available at this short notice was not particularly useful. 

Dr Grimesby Roylott was in his early fifties, descendant of a once prominent family who had fallen on hard times during the previous century and the only remaining feature of their once illustrious assets was Stoke Moran, the ancestral home in the family’s possession for centuries but now ill-kept and not up to its former glory. 

The man had moved abroad at an early age, mainly living in India, medical degree obtained in Calcutta and once married, with two stepdaughters. Now a widower, stepdaughter number one dead under rather peculiar circumstances, number two living in Scotland with her husband and no contact with her stepfather. 

So the recluse part seemed to be accurate. 

The first stepdaughter had apparently died of some sort of cardiac arrest or stroke in the middle of the night, despite not having shown any signs of a previous heart condition. Her sister had been the one to find her gasping for air in her bed before falling into a coma, never to wake up again. 

The wife had died in a train accident in Calcutta, the details were a bit hazy on the actual event and after her death there had officially been no one else.

The man was apparently still practising medicine to some degree in a nearby village, but more sporadically than anything else, and otherwise he seemed to conduct business in London, but what that business consisted of was still unclear. 

This was probably where Magnussen fit in and considering the media man’s scruples, what Sherlock had told Mycroft about Dr Roylott when meeting him for the first time, as well as being very difficult to pinpoint to any obvious trade, it seemed likely that he made a living from something on the shadier side of the law. And that was naturally enough of an incentive to wet Sherlock’s appetite and Mycroft could easily see how his brother would have been tempted to take a closer look at the affairs of this strange man. 

There were too many unknown variables to who Dr Grimesby Roylott really was, for Mycroft’s liking, but at least they were headed for his home now, the rest would hopefully fall into place upon arrival.

A part of him wished that Sherlock would not be there, despite knowing that he had no other clues to go by, if Sherlock had not gone after Dr Roylott.   
Without knowing too much about the man they were about to visit, at least two deaths under peculiar circumstances, as well as the professed anger issues and the presumed criminal activity, it was too much to ignore, Dr Roylott could potentially prove to be quite dangerous. 

At least Dr Watson had his gun, even if he hadn’t displayed it openly yet, and Magnussen would perhaps be a valuable mediator during possible negotiations. And well, Mycroft had his own resources to use, if the situation dictated it.

As the helicopter finally landed, close to the gates surrounding the ominous building that was Stoke Moran, Mycroft steeled himself for what was about to come.


	13. Breakthrough

After having realised that the gates to the premises were not only firmly closed but also unmanned, and resolutely shutting down any suggestions from John to simply attempt breaking in anyway, Magnussen whipped his phone out with a sigh.

“If I make this call, it won’t catch Roylott by surprise.”

John pointed at the cameras situated on each side of the gate.

“Well, we are as close to catching him unguarded as we are possibly going to get, seeing as we are standing by his bloody gate and there is probably someone looking at us right now. Since you two refuse to risk ruining your fancy suits by climbing the gate, I don’t see many more options than to actually call and announce that we are here,” he sneered.

Magnussen gave him a cold stare but then turned his back to the other two in a show of privacy which seemed ludicrous considering where they were standing, in the middle of the rural countryside, darkness all around them, in front of the gates to the house of a man who might or might not have met with Sherlock this evening. 

Considering how little they had to go on, there was a plausible risk that they were going to return empty-handed, and no further clues to go by. Perhaps Sherlock was even back home by now, blissfully unaware of this unorthodox rescue party. Or perhaps he wasn’t even in the need of any rescuing at all and would just get angry for the disturbance they caused.

_Well too bad_, John thought grimly, _you don’t get to dictate everything just because you made the effort to prevent anyone else from coming along. _

He stepped up behind Magnussen’s back, annoyed by the other man’s overt sign of exclusion.

“Put the call on speaker,” he demanded. “I don’t want you tipping your mate off what we are here for. I need to hear what you two are saying.”

Magnussen turned to look at him, superior annoyance clear in his eyes.

“Don’t be ridiculous! Why would I be interested in cooperating in whatever it is you believe has happened to your precious flatmate? This isn’t some silly Agatha Christie novel where everyone is a potential murderer in disguise.”

But John wasn’t backing down.

“If you are so unconcerned about Sherlock’s wellbeing, then why are you here? And as far as cooperating with Dr Shreck in there, I have no illusions regarding your motives. You have shown me that you have no scruples when it comes to getting what you want.”

Magnussen let out a small chuckle in response.

“Oh, I’m hardly the only one with that mind set....Sherlock himself is quite...”

Mycroft quickly decided to intervene by stepping up between the two men, his hands raised in a placating manner.

“If you would be so kind as to allow Mr Magnussen to make the call, Dr Watson, it would be much appreciated. We are wasting precious time standing out here arguing when we could be inside talking to the man of the house instead.”

John gave him an incredulous look, unable to believe his ears.

“The man just insinuated that Sherlock, your brother I might add, if it helps put things in perspective, has...”

The words got stuck in his throat, unable to formulate what his own mind had secretly been dreading ever since he had learned just how interested Charles Magnussen actually seemed to be in Sherlock. He had suspected that some sort of incentive must have been given but had at the same time stubbornly refused to fully believe it. He knew how jealousy could twist and turn things until it made a person unable to separate reality from distrustful imaginations.

But considering how this evening had played out, and Magnussen’s continuous hints, it made it harder to ignore that Sherlock might actually have crossed a line or two when trying to succeed with his mission. 

This caused an uncomfortable churning at the bottom of his stomach just thinking about it, and this was hardly the place to address such an issue, and yet, there was a limit to what he was willing to endure.

“....has...done something well beyond duty...,” he tried, and he could see the glimmer of Magnussen’s teeth as his lips parted in a lecherous grin. 

The urge to wipe it out by punching a fist straight into the other man’s taunting face was becoming overwhelming and he felt his hands tingling at the prospect. 

But Mycroft placed himself in front of John, all but reaching out to physically prevent him from doing what he so clearly wanted to do.

Mycroft had a very displeased look on his face when he addressed him.

“Don’t be ridiculous! I am not willing to endure another second standing here listening to two supposedly grown men argue like inane schoolboys. You need to calm down, Dr Watson, get a hold of yourself. These outbursts are completely pointless and serves no purpose to what we are here to do.” 

He turned to look at the other man now. “And you, Mr Magnussen, please make the call.”

He paused for a second before he added:

“And I agree, it needs to be on speaker.”

Magnussen raised his eyebrows in astonishment, but Mycroft remained unwavering. 

“I insist.”

This was the first time John had witnessed the older Holmes brother bluntly dictate terms with Magnussen, otherwise always going for polite chilly smoothness to run its course even when disagreeing. 

But Mycroft was clearly fed up with the whole situation, stern lines etched across his forehead as well as the drained look in his eyes spoke volumes, and after a few seconds of hesitation, Magnussen begrudgingly pressed the number on his phone and then switched it to speaker. 

John took the time to try calming himself down, not making any promises that his fists wouldn’t come to use as the evening progressed, but for now realising that this might not be the right time for a brawl.

The phone rang for almost a full minute before someone picked up on the other end.

The burly voice of Dr Roylott conveyed a tone of surprise when answering. 

“Mr Magnussen? A call at this hour?”

Magnussen was much calmer than John would have given anyone the credit for, when replying to Roylott’s suspicious questions, not even once wavering with hesitation at the message he was about to deliver, despite the frankly preposterous situation. 

But he was probably so used to getting his way, without any regard to decency, so the situation was most likely not as uncomfortable for him as it would have been for anyone normal, who didn’t show up at other people’s houses, demanding entrance like it was a the most natural thing in the world.

Despite this attitude earning them results, John couldn’t help but feel irked by it. 

He was sick of being surrounded by men who treated the world and everyone in it, like a playground for them to plough through without a care in the world for consequences. 

Not very unlike Sherlock actually. No wonder Magnussen had felt an immediate connection to him. Too bad he also seemed intent on fucking him as well.

John pressed his nails hard into the soft flesh of his palms to divert himself from going any further with those thoughts right now and turned his attention to the conversation in front of him instead.

“...more than a call actually. You see, I’m standing by your gates, hoping that you might let me in.”

There was silence on the other end, Dr Roylott clearly perplexed by this piece of information.

“_Here_?” he finally said. “You’re at Stoke Moran?”

“Yes.”

May I ask why?”

“You may. Once you’ve granted me entrance.”

Another silence.

“And I brought company.” Magnussen added when the silence just seemed to stretch on. 

“What? Who?”

“Also information that will be provided once you let us in. Or you might see for yourself by looking at your security cameras. Your surveillance seems to be lacking if no one has yet alerted you to the fact that we have been standing here a good ten minutes all ready.”

Even Mycroft looked appalled by the demanding tone from Magnussen, despite being a person who never tolerated resistance himself. The bane of his life being that his own little brother was the one who constantly gave it to him. 

But as Magnussen must have known all along and John had suspected, this attitude apparently worked, because Dr Roylott caved in and muttered that he would send a car to pick them up.

“A car?” John asked once Magnussen had ended the call. “Can’t we just walk?”

“You can walk if you want to. I’m taking the car,” Magnussen replied coolly without looking at him. Instead he turned to Mycroft who was standing a little on the side now.

“It would be best if I handled the conversation with Dr Roylott, since I am the one he actually knows. You take care of the companion you insisted on bringing along. So far I have not managed to figure out the purpose of him being here, but I’m sure the famously strategic Mycroft Holmes would never bring a useless player just for the spite of it.”

Mycroft didn’t reply to this and when the car finally arrived ten minutes later, they all just got in and sat in silence while being driven to the mansion and the host who was awaiting their arrival.

Dr Roylott was standing on the threshold to the entrance when car came to a stop and did not step forward to greet them as they got out of the car. 

It was difficult to tell as he was standing silhouetted with the light from inside coming from behind him, but there was something about his stance that told John that the man seemed very suspicious towards this unexpected disturbance of his evening.

That didn’t necessarily mean anything of course, who wouldn’t be caught off guard when receiving visitors unannounced, visitors who he mostly didn’t know, and at this late hour. But still, John couldn’t help but feel like their presence was very unwanted.

Magnussen was the first to get out and he ascended the steps to greet the doctor before he turned around and made a vague gesture towards John and Mycroft. 

“My two companions, Mr Mycroft Holmes and Dr ...” He pretended to search for the correct name. “_Watkins_ was it?” 

John gritted his teeth but made no effort to correct him. To do so would imply that Magnussen’s small jabs got to him and he wasn’t going to give the man the pleasure. Besides, it didn’t matter what name Roylott knew him by, John just wanted to get this over and done with.

If he reacted to Mycroft’s familiar surname, Dr Roylott made a good job of not letting it show. But neither did he extend any greeting hands. Instead he continued to address Magnussen.

“Apologies for keeping you out in the cold. My cameras are not supervised by staff, so I’m afraid I wasn’t paying attention,” he mumbled while casting a suspicious eye over Magnussen’s shoulder. “And frankly I wasn’t expecting company. Will you tell me now what has brought you here? What pressing matter could possible warrant a visit instead of just making a call?”

“Let’s go inside and I’ll fill you in.” And without waiting for a proper invitation, Magnussen stepped past Dr Roylott and disappeared inside, not bothering to see if the others were coming as well.

When John and Mycroft climbed the steps to follow, it almost looked like Dr Roylott was about to stand in their way, but then, as if changing his mind, he turned his back to them and went inside, allowing them entrance by removing himself.

Magnussen had already disappeared through the only open door available and as the hallway was anything but welcoming in its murkiness and frankly unkempt appearance, Mycroft and John steered their steps towards the more inviting source of light shining from the other room, leaving Dr Roylott to silently follow in their wake.

John couldn’t help but allow his gaze to travel the interior as he walked, certain that Mycroft must be doing the same, despite looking completely unphased. 

No trace of Sherlock, unless he was waiting for them in the room they were about to enter. But it was beginning to look like they had been following a dead lead and his heart slumped a little at that. 

He had no wish to spend any further time in the company of either Mycroft or Magnussen, Magnussen in particular was making him suffer the taste of acid every time the man opened his mouth. 

Maybe he should just have allowed Mycroft to go on his pointless goose chase without him. 

For all they knew, Sherlock could very well be at home again right now, lounging about in the living room, probably wondering a little bit about John’s absence, but just as likely not even paying too much attention if he was there or not. 

With Sherlock it was perfectly possible for him to miss if another person was present or not, and despite having experienced it on numerous occasions, it did still sting thinking about it, especially as John had actually thought that things might be different since their relationship had evolved from being just friends and colleagues.

Foolish of him to think that Sherlock would ever change though. People like him didn’t change and why should they, as long as others around them catered to that behaviour without evoking consequences. 

Well, John wasn’t having it.

As soon as they were face to face again, he was going to give Sherlock a piece of his mind, really tear into him for once, see how he liked it. 

With thoughts of retaliation still whirling around in his head, he stepped into the room and joined Mycroft who had positioned himself by the fire while Magnussen had opted for seating himself in one of the chairs, a wing-backed monstrosity that made him look more like a character from a Hammer horror movie than a man of this century. 

Come to think of it, the whole room, and most likely the rest of the house as well, reeked of some ancient nostalgia that seemed more sad than anything else and John wondered how anyone could prefer to live like this, recluse or not, when this time and age could offer so much more in way of comfort and modernisation. The light in the room was provided by bloody oil lamps and a roaring fire, for God’s sake! 

His attention was brough back to their host as Dr Roylott closed the door behind him and crossed the room to join them.

“Well, you’re inside now, Mr Magnussen and you have made yourselves comfortable enough. I suggest we skip the rest of the theatrics. What the hell are you doing here? And who are these two?”

Magnussen who looked very relaxed in his chair, seemed undisturbed by the harshness of Dr Roylott’s tone.

“Yes, sorry for the intrusion. I fell victim for it myself earlier this evening, while dining at The Delauney . And for the very same reason as we are now intruding upon you. You see, Mr Holmes here, had the strong belief that his errant younger brother Sherlock was sharing my company tonight and apparently thought it necessary to come and collect him. Unfortunately, Sherlock was not with me, I would have given me much joy if he had been.”

Dr Roylott snorted at the same time as John did, and Mycroft arched his eyebrows at the sound, but Magnussen didn’t move a muscle to indicate that he cared about their obvious show of contempt for what he was saying.

“I have heard quite enough from you about Sherlock Holmes to not want to hear his name mentioned again,” Dr Roylott said coldly. “Besides, if his brother is standing right here, don’t you think it wise to tone down the lechery a little bit?”

A predatory smile stretched across the face of the man in the chair.

“Oh, Mr Holmes is perfectly in tune with what my intentions are regarding his brother. I haven’t exactly kept it a secret and we actually had a rather good conversation about it when he decided to interrupt my dinner this evening. I think I made my point come across very well.”

John turned to look at Mycroft who stoically stood and pretended to not be affected by what Magnussen said. Or maybe he wasn’t pretending, it was always difficult to tell with Mycroft.

And what did it all mean? Had Mycroft for some reason allowed Magnussen to go after what he wanted? 

It seemed unthinkable, and yet, if being forced somehow....? 

To stop himself from just walking up to the bespectacled man droning on in his wing-backed chair about how he wanted to get his hands, and most likely other body parts as well, on John’s boyfriend, John let his eyes roam the room instead, tuning out the words from the others for a few seconds. He couldn’t stomach listening to it anymore.

It was clear that this trip had been made in vain.

Sherlock wasn’t here and damn if he was going to stand there and actively listen to the filth that was being said right now.

He still needed Magnussen’s helicopter to get him home but right now it was very tempting to just walk instead of spending another second with these pricks.

“...When I managed to convince Mr Holmes that his brother wasn’t with me....” Magnussen said in the background before John tuned him out.

His eyes widened as he caught sight of the cheetah and he had to check twice before realising that it wasn’t a living specimen. It was very eerie looking and made him feel uncomfortable, staring into those yellow glass eyes. What kind of a macabre ramshackle of a house was this anyway? 

“...your name came up and for some reason....”

Next to the fireplace, tilted against the wall was a firepoker that looked a little out of shape, like someone had tried bending it for some reason. 

It was still straight but strangely uneven. 

The only reason John even for a second paid it any notice was because it was standing next to the rack that it was supposed to be kept in, but probably didn’t fit properly considering its form. 

He realised that living with Sherlock must have rubbed off a little bit, because this was exactly the kind of detail Sherlock’s laser beam eyes would pick up on as well, details that were small and insignificant to most people but told the story of something at odds with how it should be. 

The difference between him and Sherlock though was that the detective would be able to make a deduction out of it whereas John only saw the oddity but didn’t know what to do with it

So what, a fire poker with a strange shape to it, unable to stand in the rack it was meant to be in? Not exactly a mystery when there were so many other things that made far bigger question marks in this house. 

But still, it nagged at his attention and the thing that struck him as really odd was the fact that there was a rack to begin with. What purpose did it serve if it was unable to be of proper use? 

Unless of course, it hadn’t always been useless. 

A thought hit him and he couldn’t help but wonder it this was perhaps similar to what Sherlock experienced every time he realised something significant. 

Maybe the poker hadn’t always had that shape or form? Maybe it had been forced into that slightly twisted appearance for some reason and was now leaned against the wall because the rack it had previously fitted into, no longer managed that.

“...apparently Sherlock Holmes can be a bit of a busy-body....” He heard Magnussen say in the background and it split his attention for a second.

John realised that the moment of trying to deduce anything further was sadly gone, he didn’t see the significance of his discovery, in the end it was only a fire poker with a slightly strange form leaning against the wall, it was hardly the strangest thing in the room, or even particularly strange at all. 

Impatiently John walked over to the large window, in an effort to put some distance between himself and the pointless monologue going on by the fireplace. 

He was tired of listening to Magnussen, tired of his voice, his superior manner, the way he talked about everyone as if being chess pieces on a board he was in charge of. 

Not very unlike Mycroft, John thought grimly. 

But even if Sherlock’ s brother never had been a particular favourite of his, he at least wasn’t as utterly deplorable as the man sitting in the chair holding court at the moment. 

John wasn’t even remotely interested in spending another second in his presence and he wondered how Sherlock had ever been able to bare it. 

But to Sherlock, this was all just a game of course and apparently when playing a game no rules applied, John bitterly realised, thinking about the insistent innuendos Magnussen had been making all night, Mycroft slightly embarrassed demeanour, not making the effort to contradict Magnussen’s words even if he didn’t outright confirm them either. 

And then Sherlock’s own behaviour of course. 

How he had lulled John into the belief that Magnussen was a dropped case, combined with his slightly odd behaviour over the past 24 hours, intimate and sexually alluring one second, then spoiling for a fight the next. 

And then of course, the worst of all. 

The drugged tea. 

The mere thought of it sent sudden anger through his body and involuntarily John clenched his fists while staring out into the darkness outside window, tightening his jaw in an effort to hold back the feelings that were threating to boil up to the surface once more. 

He could se the shadow of his own reflection in the window, as well as the others behind his back. He noticed how Dr Roylott turned his head to look at him for a moment before facing Magnussen again and interrupted the flow of words that came out of the media mogul’s mouth.

“So if I am to understand this correctly, you lot for some reason believe that this Sherlock Holmes character would be _here_? Arriving in a car supposedly sent by _me_?”

Dr Roylott’s coarse voice was preferable to the smooth slithering of Magnussen’s in John’s ears and in an effort to get a control of the feelings threatening to overpower him whenever the thought of Sherlock’s deceit hit him, he closed his eyes against his own reflection and bent his head down, his chin towards his chest, taking a few deep breaths.

“Why ever would I do that?” Roylott spit out, beginning to work himself up into a temper now. “I have no interest in him. His childish efforts at playing detective is of no concern to me. He doesn’t even really know who I am! And to me, he is only that piece of ass you been running after lately, Magnussen, nothing more.”

“Magnussen implied that my brother’s prying annoyed you...” Mycroft tried but was immediately interrupted.

“And it did! I don’t like people snooping into my affairs. But he is insignificant, your brother. Annoying? Yes. A threat? No. And as you can very well see, he isn’t here. It’s just me here. As it usually is. “

John opened his eyes, feeling slightly calmer now. He was ready to wrap this up now. 

This had all been a huge pointless mistake and he wasn’t fully convinced that Magnussen wasn’t behind it all, playing a trick on them, sending him and Mycroft into the completely wrong direction while he had Sherlock stashed away somewhere else, awaiting his return. 

And if it would get him closer to find that mysterious vault, who knew what Sherlock was willing to do to achieve it?

John should have realised that when on the trail of something, Sherlock never did let go and Magnussen wasn’t some lillywhite innocent with his hands clean and no hidden skeletons in his closet. Naturally Sherlock hadn’t just dropped the case. He had simply dropped those around him who would object to his methods.

John was just about to turn around to announce that it was time for them to leave, when his eyes caught something lying on the floor a few feet away from him. 

And when he realised what it was, he simply froze to the spot.

It was a button. 

But not just any button. It was pearly white with the remnants of a very particular aubergine thread in the middle and John knew this button very well, having spent several occasions undoing this very button, as well as other ones just like it, while removing the deep purple shirt it belonged to from Sherlock’s slight frame.

It was staring at him from the bottom of the floor, seemingly ripped off from its original place on the shirt front by the looks of it and John felt his body go cold as the realisation hit him.  
Sherlock must have been here and if a button had been ripped from his shirt, it indicated that something violent must have occurred. 

He thought of the strangely shaped fire stocker so innocently leaning against the wall and he stared at the ripped-off button in front of him.

The question was, what exactly was it that had happened here and where was Sherlock now?


	14. Beginning of the end

While he could hear Magnussen begin to wrap it up in the background, John decided to allow action to take precedence over wasting any more time trying to think of a plan. 

Planning ahead was Mycroft’s area and he was admittedly good at it, but it wasn’t possible for him to reach out to the older Holmes brother and tell him about his discovery without alerting the others in the room. 

And there was no way in hell he wanted to include Magnussen in any sort of team effort to try and figure out where Sherlock was and if he was in any danger. 

He didn’t trust the man one bit, he wasn’t even convinced Magnussen wasn’t in on this whole escapade somehow, maybe he and this Dr Roylott character were cooperating somehow. 

Who was to say that Magnussen didn’t know very well where Sherlock was and had simply come along to take suspicions off himself?

Yeah, that actually seemed pretty plausible come to think of it.

So the way he figured it, he had two options here.

One was to just whip his gun out, point it at Dr Roylott and ask him about Sherlock straight out.

It would certainly be effective if he wanted to spring it upon the man, take him by surprise and minimize the risk of resistance. By the looks of it, Dr Roylott seemed big and sturdy enough to be threatening in a physical fight, but few if any people stood up against a gun being pointed at them.

The downside could be that it would perhaps cause him to clam up. 

Weapon or not, he could still refuse to speak, and John could not shoot a hole through his head as long as he still needed him to give information about Sherlock’s whereabouts. 

The wielding of a gun could very easily just turn into a deadlock and since he didn’t yet know if time was of essence here, if perhaps Sherlock was held somewhere that was making it important to finding him before something truly terrible happened, John wasn’t sure he could risk a deadlock right now. 

Considering how very stubborn Dr Roylott appeared even before actual accusations had been made against him, who knew how stubborn and unhelpful he would be if thoroughly pressed?

The other option was to somehow alert Mycroft to his discovery of the button, and with his aid solve the situation. 

It would be easier two work together and Mycroft would know how to keep Magnussen out of it. 

But at the same time, Mycroft wasn’t necessarily a man of action, preferring the safety of sitting behind a desk to come up with his stratagems, John had no idea how clever he would be just thinking on his feet. 

Mycroft led a very sedentary life, Sherlock always claimed he was the laziest man in London and perhaps, in this type of situation, he would only become hindrance?

Sensing that the moment to make a decision was shrinking by every second passing by, but still wavering back and forth, the situation was taken out of hind hands quite unexpectedly by a loud crash behind his back and as he turned around to see what the commotion was all about, he noticed how the chair Magnussen had been sitting in was now toppled over on the floor, the man himself sprawling next to it.

On the other side of it, Mycroft was standing, his legs slightly apart as if having moved away from the fallen chair just in time, and this made John at first think that Mycroft for some reason was the one responsible for Magnussen’s predicament. 

But a quick look at Dr Roylott who stood huffing, fury evident in his features, fists raised, told him that it was he who was the culprit.

And as Dr Roylott was staring at Mycroft instead of Magnussen, John realised that the intended victim had not been Magnussen at all but the older Holmes brother who must have moved out of reach, resulting in Dr Roylott accidentally tipping over the chair Magnussen had been lounging in. 

“What are you doing, Holmes?” Magnussen was clearly angry by the sudden direction things had taken. “I told you earlier I would be in charge of the conversation, no need for you to interfere.”

“I merely suggested....” Mycroft began and now that the initial surprise over being attacked was beginning to subside, he looked angry as well.

“Well, don’t!” Magnussen hissed as he got to his feet. “You are agitating our host!”

“He most certainly is. I want him out of here. And he can take his companion with him as well!” Dr Roylott had turned his head to nod in John’s direction. His fists were still clenched, and he looked ready to strike again at any second.

But Mycroft put up a defiant resistance.

“You can’t expect me to simply take the word of a man with your reputation at face value, Dr Roylott. Besides, having been forced to listen not only to you but to Mr Magnussen as well, discussing my brother in a very derogatory manner, I wouldn’t consider my own words too offensive in comparison.”

“You just accused me of being a criminal! This is _my_ house, and_you<_ are intruding in it, I won’t tolerate anyone coming here making such accusations about me.”

“I haven’t made any accusations...”

“Well, you certainly implied them!”

Roylott whipped his head in Magnussen’s direction now. “Why the bloody hell did you bring these men here? You and I have no beef, but I won’t stand for this worm trying to act stroppy with me and if you side with him...”

Mycroft immediately cut him off.

“Oh, don’t bother, he isn’t siding with me. He merely wants to have his way with my brother, that’s where his interest both begins and ends in this matter…And convinced as well that he might achieve it. Perhaps he will thanks to you.”

This only managed to infuriate the doctor even further, actual spittle coming out of his mouth as he spoke.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Exactly what you think it means.”

Mycroft turned to face Magnussen.

“I’m calling for my own transport home, so don’t bother coming with us. I have had enough of your company for the evening, Mr Magnusseb. John! We’re leaving!””

Still surprised by this sudden turn of events, John couldn’t come up with anything to do but follow Mycroft out the door, hurrying his steps to catch up. 

He needed to stop their exit and perhaps, if possible, try to explain what he had found once they were outside. With Magnussen unexpectedly out of the picture now it would be easier to talk more freely with Mycroft and decide what to do next.

But he never had the chance, because as soon as they were out of the room, Mycroft slammed the door shut behind his back, then, to John’s huge astonishment, rushed with a vigour John up until now had not thought possible for Mycroft to achieve, over to a shoe-bench situated by the front door. 

He pushed aside the only pair of Wellington boots that were on it and then rushed back and tilted it on the side, wedged in under the door handle so it couldn’t be turned. 

The door was now stuck, with Magnussen and Dr Roylott trapped inside and unable to get out.

“Mycroft, what the hell....?” John began but was impatiently cut off mid-sentence by Mycroft.

“You know Sherlock has been here, most likely still is, I could see it in your posture, how you suddenly grew stiff and stared at something on the floor, and then tensed your shoulders, as if considering your options. Up until that moment, your body language rather showed signs of you thinking that being here was a waste of your time. What was it that you saw?”

As there was now movement from the locked-up room, steps moving across the floor, soon followed by sounds behind the door, John quickly explained about the shirt button, and then a little more hesitantly about the fire poker, that particular clue he wasn’t sure was actually correct.

Mycroft nodded as he turned and began to walk hastily towards the staircase.

“What tipped _you_ off then?” John asked as he quickly followed him.

“I’ll tell you later. We don’t have much time. That door block might only work temporarily, we need to spread out and look for him. Something tells me that we might not have that much time.”

John reached out to grab Mycroft by the arm to stop him in his tracks.

“What do you mean?”

Mycroft impatiently sighed as if it was all very obvious, and in that moment he was so similar to Sherlock that it made John wonder who had perfected the art of looking like the only one superior in a room consisting of imbeciles to begin with.

“Dr Roylott was entirely too calm for someone accused of hiding a person under his roof. As if he wasn’t in a particular hurry to get back to his prisoner. He wasn’t faced by the fact that I thought he had my brother here at first, but the moment I approached the subject of his connection to Magnussen and what I suspected was an enterprise of a criminal nature....well you saw it yourself, he grew angry within seconds. After that, everything I said just aggravated him even further.”

“We still don’t really know what happened here tonight, only that Sherlock must have been here at one point and most likely ended up in a physical fight that resulted in his button being ripped off.”

“Yes, and seeing our host very instinctively reacting with physical force when affronted, how likely do you think it is that my brother, one of the most irritating people to walk the earth and never one to know when to simply keep his mouth shut, has managed to stroll out of here unharmed?”

As he talked, they had ascended the staircase and behind them a pounding sound was now heard from the blocked door, as well as some angry shouting. 

So far, the shoe bench seemed to hold up against the onslaught of physical force against the door, most likely from Dr Roylott. John couldn’t really imagine Magnussen doing much physical work to help him out.

As the reached the top of the stairs Mycroft immediately turned left while John went to the right. 

“Keep your phone ready, however finds him first or ends up in trouble needs to reach out. I have my gun but...”

Mycroft had already disappeared into the darkness without a reply and John let the rest of his sentence hang in the air as he rushed along the long hall that stretched out in front of him, consisting of a row of doors, one of them hopefully revealing what he was looking for.

************ 

Inside the locked room Dr Roylott was still trying to work on breaking the door while Magnussen had stepped to the side, watching the other man with a perplexed expression.

“Why the panic? I have a phone, we can call for back-up if we need it. Let them run amok in the house or leave, whatever suits their purpose. We might even use this to our advantage if we want to. Pretty sure Mycroft Holmes' career won’t exactly prosper if word reaches his colleagues that he locked two people up against their will in another man’s house and began to search it for his missing brother, like a raving lunatic. As soon as I found out he had a brother, and especially after meeting said brother myself, I knew Sherlock would prove to be at least someone’s pressure point. Luck really that it turned out he was Mycroft’s.”

Dr Roylott grunted as he pushed his shoulder forcefully against the door frame one more time, to no success. If he was listening to Magnussen, he wasn’t showing it.

“Suit yourself,” Magnussen muttered as he walked over to the fireplace to warm himself. As the house was devoid of the modernism of central heating, it was quite chilly inside, especially considering the late hour. 

He reached his hands out towards the flames, losing himself in thoughts of how gratifying it would feel to put a dent in the glistening career of the man who was The British Government. 

Magnussen always enjoyed sniffing out weaknesses in others and exploit whatever he had on them in a show of power, and Mycroft Holmes in particular had always been a particularly tempting opposition to take down, with his starchy persona and reputation for being veritably impenetrable. 

But Magnussen had been around long enough to know that everyone had their pressure point ready to be used in a downfall. And deliciously unpredictable Sherlock was just the perfect candidate to help with this particular achievement. 

The added pleasure of having Sherlock under his thumb as well with his photos of him, ready to be whipped out in front of anyone he might care about, just doubled the fun. 

Magnussen wanted Sherlock badly, but he wasn’t stupid enough to think that it might happen without a little incentive. The question was really how far he could take it?

All the way to his bed and then some? 

Just to get rid of the competition he might even show John Watson what kind of a man he was really hankering after. 

The doctor was predictably easy to read and would be very upset by such images as well as the deceit they implied. 

He wouldn’t know they weren’t showing the actual truth, just like Mycroft hadn’t been able to see it either. People saw what they wanted to see and considering the untrustworthiness of Sherlock, who would ever believe his side of the story?

Oh, this evening just seemed to get better by the minute!

Magnussen’s indifferent attitude towards their predicament apparently wasn’t shared by Dr Roylott who instead felt provoked by it as he twisted his head and snarled:

“You don’t get it, they _can’t_ be allowed to roam freely!"/p> 

Without turning to look at him, Magnussen answered calmly. 

“Why ever not? Are you keeping some skeletons on display in one of your many rooms? I thought you never left any evidence of your affairs out in the open, considering how many times I have stressed the importance of never leaving a trail to be abused by others.” 

“It’s not that...” 

The tone in his voice made Magnussen turn around to look at him. 

Suddenly Dr Roylott looked equal parts anguished as well as panic stricken, and Magnussen narrowed his eyes. 

“What is it that you’re scared of exactly?” 

When no answer came forth, Magnussen stepped up to him slowly, despite realising the foolishness of aggravating a man of Dr Roylott’s disposition. On the other hand, Magnussen had enough on the man to put him behind bars for a long time if he wanted to and such an upper hand made him boldly decide to confront instead of keeping quiet. 

“What is it you’re not telling me?” 

In another desperate effort, perhaps to get away from Magnussen’s prying questions as well trying to get out, Dr Roylott stormed towards the door one more time. But like previously to no avail. 

“I’ve never seen you this jittery before. Agitated yes, hot-headed as well, but this? This is....” 

Magnussen’s eyes widened behind his glasses as realisation hit him. 

“Is this somehow related to Sherlock?” he asked. 

After a moment of stubborn silence, with Dr Roylott glowering at Magnussen, he finally threw his arms out in exasperation. 

“Well, I needed to give him a warning, didn’t I? He was like a bloody terrier at my heels and even when confronted with a straightforward warning he simply refused to submit.” 

A very displeased frown appeared over Magnussen’s features now. 

“And what has this resulted in? Did you assault him physically? Locked him up in this horror house of yours? _Is_ he actually here?” 

Dr Roylott winced at that last phrasing but didn’t lash out to defend himself. 

“You must have known that I was going to contact him! I told you how annoying I found his interfering! Why else would you come here with the others? You must have at least suspected that I would take him here.” 

“I did suspect that you were going to confront him, yes. But this whole trip was Mycroft’s idea from the very beginning, I just came along for the entertainment which he so luckily provided me with. I never dreamt...I never...” 

He stepped up to invade Dr Roylott’s personal space, their noses almost touching from the proximity, and the anger was evident on his features now. 

“What have you done? Is he at least still alive?” 

Dr Roylott looked distressed again while trying but failing to keep himself under control. 

“Maybe, I haven’t checked in on him in a while. It’s difficult to time these things, so it might still be possible for him to be alive. But whether or not he is, he isn’t going to make it, I can tell you that straight away. We are going to be in huge trouble if we don’t stop them from finding him.” 

“_We_? There is no _we_ here. This is your mess, and yours alone.”

“_You_ put him in my path by bringing him to your flat, lusting after him like a horny teenager!”

“I did no such thing. It was you who so uncandidly spoke about your affairs, piquing his interest regarding your affairs.”

“I thought he was one of your usual rent boys!”

“His appearance alone should have told ýou that he wasn’t. And besides, so what if he had been a rent boy? No reason to go blabbing just because you think a prostitute won’t pay attention. I never once told you to go after him.”

“You knew I was going to do it though. You _knew_!”

Magnussen let out a sarcastic little laugh.

“And do you think that is going to hold up in a court of law? You claiming I knew, and everyone is just going to believe it? A man of your shady reputation? Please, that’s even more laughable than Mycroft Holmes running amok looking for his little tart of a brother. Because suddenly his actions make perfect sense if the body of his brother is found here. Naturally he would lock up the culprit and search the house. You have just bereft me of my first true chink in his armour. I was so looking forward to putting this little gem out there among his peers and colleagues.”

“I don’t know what tipped hm off,” Dr Roylott mumbled, clearly tuning out Magnussen now.

“It doesn’t matter you, idiot!” Magnussen hissed, as if beginning to grow tired of the whole situation. His plans had not turned out to his liking and now he didn’t have anything left of Sherlock but a few measly photos and his own memories. It was frankly difficult to say what stung the most, the loss of Sherlock or the missed opportunity to humiliate Mycroft. To his surprise, it seemed to be Sherlock. 

“Oh, I warn you not to use such language when talking to me...” Dr Roylott sneered but Magnussen frankly didn’t care about the other man anymore. 

“Am I offending your sensitive feelings, perhaps, doctor? Well, you just ruined my most recent priced possession, so I’m not feeling particularly bothered by the way I’m addressing you at the moment. I need to get out of here before Mycroft and that ape of a flatmate find what they’re looking for. If you so much as breathe a word about my presence here tonight I’ll end you. You will be hearing from me soon enough, when or _if_ this blows over. For your sake I hope it isn’t behind bars.”

And with those words he whipped his phone out and dialled as he walked towards the window.

“I’m calling my pilot so he can pick me up. You can escape if you want to, but I’m not offering you a ride in my helicopter. I’m not aiding a possible killer to escape. You’re on your own.”

Dr Roylott opened his mouth as if to say something when Magnussen opened the large window to prepare for his exit, but then decided against it and remained quiet.

Magnussen climbed the now open window, his phone pressed to his ear with one hand while the other held on to the windowpane to keep his balance.

“Wait for me by the gates, I’ll be there shortly,” he said to the presumed pilot on the other end.

And then he was gone. 

Dr Roylott quickly walked over to the window and closed it firmly. He knew better than to run any risks by keeping it open longer than necessary. 

Then he turned to look around the room for something to use to break that bloody door with.

His eyes fell on the fire poker and for the second time this evening he grabbed it in a firm hold before he rushed to the door, barging at it with all his might against the wooden frame. 

This time there was a small but distinct crack of the material and encouraged by his success he raised the fire poker again with determination. 

He really needed to get out and find the other two before they managed to find what he so carelessly had left in his wake, and fuelled by this thought, he delivered the next blow succesfully.

************ 

Sherlock no longer had any responsiveness in his legs and was beginning to feel both pain pulsating viciously from the bite in his hand as well as dizzying spells bringing him to the edge of vomiting. Luckily it hadn’t come to that yet as no he longer had enough strength to tilt his head to do so without risk choking.

This new weakened state frightened him more than anything else, because it reminded him of how utterly hopeless the whole situation actually was.  
Even if he had not been tied down, he would not have managed to escape in this feeble state. 

The pain was alternatingly between being tortuous but also strangely comforting as it still was something he could actually feel. The paralysation of his body had already begun, and it was only going to get worse and for some reason it was what frightened him the most. 

He wasn’t completely sure but he had the feeling that he might be slipping in and out of consciousness a well now, only to be jolted back to reality by the pain that felt like fire licking him from the inside. But to scream was proving too much of a strain so even if his body instinctively had wished to do so, it was like Dr Roylott had pointed out earlier, he was no longer able to make any sounds.

He closed his eyes and braced himself against another wave of pain, his forehead glistening with sweat, making his curls plaster themselves against his skin and his mouth twisting into a soundless grimace. 

This wasn’t worse than one of his nastiest drug withdrawals, not yet, but it was certainly in the top three of excruciating experiences he had suffered from. And it was probably only going to get worse, so there was still a chance of making it to number one. 

This experience also had the decidedly negative aspect of actually killing him, slowly but determinedly, unlike the drug withdrawals who had the benefit of at least _trying_ to cleanse his body from any bad substances.

He had never entertained the thought that a drug detox could have killed him, even if he theoretically knew that it could. He had somehow always survived those, however dangerous and extremely unsafe they had been, and he had always been sure of the end result, even when suffering from the most excruciating abdominal pains imaginable, throwing up and hallucinating. 

He had always survived and that had been his strength when struggling through it, the determination that he was going to make it.

This was not the case now, and that sadly made the whole thing so much worse to bear. 

Pain and suffering, if knowing there was a light at the end of the tunnel was one thing. This agonising torture with no hope in sight was simply awful and gutting to realise.

As he opened his eyes again, jus to make sure that he still could and hadn’t passed on to a more permanently comatose state, he, to his huge surprise saw John suddenly standing over him, worry across his features.

It actually caused his heart to jump with excited surprise.

It looked like John was talking but Sherlock couldn’t actually hear the words, the noise of blood pumping through his veins somehow overshadowed any other sound in his ears, but he was distantly aware of movement around his arms and concluded that John was probably shaking him, even if he was now unable to turn his head to see for himself. 

Then suddenly John was gone again and even if he had realised that it must have been a hallucination all along, he still felt surprisingly saddened by imaginary-John leaving him to his own misery. 

An imaginary-John was far better than suffering through this ordeal alone and he tried to form his lips into a whisper of the other man’s name but was unable to succeed.

He felt a sensation against the hand where the snake had bitten him and suddenly it felt like his arm loosened up, as if the restraints were no longer holding him stretched out.

The tingling sensation of blood returning to a numb limb was underscoring this belief although he knew for a fact that it wasn’t possible. He was still alone in here and whatever hallucinations his brain managed to concoct they weren’t real.

As he no longer felt his legs he couldn’t tell if the situation was the same down there but his other arm went through the same liberating feeling and he actually managed to raise one of them, the one without the bite, so he could see it in front of him for a few seconds before it limply fell down across his chest. 

Apparently these hallucinations were very detailed because it really felt like he was free from his restraints despite knowing full well that it wasn’t plausible. 

He remembered feeling the same thing once after abruptly quitting cocaine and he had succumbed to the drug because the hallucinations had been deemed too real to handle back then. He had overdosed shortly afterwards and been forced to quit anyway, so no huge defeat in his opinion.

He breathed shallowly and tried to focus his eyes.

Then suddenly, John was back in front of him again.

Oh sweet faithful John who always had the combination of a worried look in his eyes with a mirthful twitch of his lips when looking at Sherlock. 

He, who had always followed Sherlock loyally wherever he had led them, always full of questions and hissed-out protestations, but never in doubt of Sherlock’s brilliance and ability to solve every dangerous situation they ended up in. 

Oh, how disappointed the real John would have been right now, witnessing this. At last a situation Sherlock couldn’t worm himself out of. 

This John didn’t look disappointed thankfully. 

He looked straight-out terrified and that wasn’t particularly comforting to witness either, but Sherlock assumed that his frightened mind projected his own fears onto the John of his imagination. It was only natural, he was scared himself after all, no wonder his hallucinations would be tainted by this overwhelming sensation.

Imaginary-John came closer to his face and this time he could sense his own name being called out, but strangely subdued, as if being spoken under water.

Then he saw Imaginary-John turn his face around, as if addressing someone else, not visible to Sherlock, perhaps not even present in the room. It looked like he was screaming.

Sherlock wanted to reach out to placate the image of John and actually managed to raise his arm from it’s fallen position of his chest to grab on to John’s hand. 

This gesture earned him the other man’s full attention once more, and while enjoying that sensation the way he had always done, ever since first meeting John Watson, he marvelled at how real John’s hand felt like. 

It was the exact authentic sensation of soft, slightly dry texture of skin that he remembered, the familiar callous on his thumb and the neatly cut nails that, unlike Sherlock’s, were always kept clean, short and efficient because of his profession and lasting rituals from his army days. 

Never so much as a hint of dirt under the nails unlike his own long elegant ones who often appeared stained by some sort of chemical or nicotine. He should know this as he had spent a whole hour once, contemplating as well analysing the differences between their hands, so efficiently telling the story of their owner just by the way they looked. 

This had been at the beginning of their relationship and he felt a pang of regret when realising that he would never again get the opportunity to perform another research like that. 

Or be with John at all. 

He had certainly not taken advantage of their short time together to its fullest he realised, so much time wasted on things that now seemed utterly unimportant.  
John’s face came closer again and it felt like Sherlock was now being lifted from the bed, the feel of John’s arms around his upper body sending a familiar comfort through him, for a second taking precedence over the pulsating pain.

For a quick moment he saw another figure in the shadows behind John, moving towards them, but then his body couldn’t manage to keep his strength up any further and despite his wish to keep looking up at John’s comfortingly familiar features, he felt his eyes slowly close and he lost consciousness once more. 

This time he didn’t regain it again.


	15. Making vows and breaking others

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately I didn't manage to wrap it up in just one final chapter. So an epilogue will follow shortly.

Seeing Sherlock initially had been a huge relief, but it had quickly turned into shock and actual horror when realising what state he was in. He didn’t seem able to react to John’s voice which was shocking to realise, and the limpness of his body even more so. 

When Sherlock then lost consciousness and remained that way despite every effort to make him wake up, John feared that all would be lost, that Sherlock would actually die right there in front of them. 

Mycroft who had arrived shortly after John’s discovery of the room where Sherlock was kept, was pale as sheet when looking down on his little brother’s lifeless body, and at first unable to utter a single word, as if frozen from shock.

John had yelled at him to do something despite not knowing himself what that something should actually be, the irony not lost on him being the doctor in the room but still fumbling with what to do. Mycroft always came off as a man in full control of every situation, however difficult it was, and to see him frozen to the spot, completely helpless, just intensified John’s feeling of being lost. 

He had noticed the two angry red spots on Sherlock’s hand when tying him up from the restraints and assumed it to be some sort of bite. The area around it was swollen and hot and as the rest of his body was reacting the way it did, it must have been caused by something serious and most likely venomous. 

He remembered having seen a man who had been bitten by a carpet viper in Afghanistan a few years back, but that bite had looked a little different from this, more blistering and with dead tissue around the bite. That man had survived but had still been forced to amputate two fingers as he had been given the antidote a little too late. It was John who had done the surgery afterwards. 

But despite other differences between that situation and this, the two red dots were achingly familiar and however perplexing it sounded, his first though actually was that it looked as if Sherlock had been subjected to a snake bite.

In the shock from realising that Sherlock wasn’t waking up, he blurted this observation out, along with a lot of other things, among them many curse words over their utter helplessness of the situation. Mycroft had grimly nodded his head and when finally regaining his voice enough to speak, he admitted that while searching the house he had happened upon a terrarium in one of the rooms, as well as some other....unpleasant features. 

He had already made the call for someone to come pick them up and that helicopter was on its way, but considering these new circumstances, he made another call, this time for a medical emergency and then turned to John who still had Sherlock in his arms but was struggling a little bit under the weight. 

Despite his slight frame, Sherlock was considerably taller which made it more difficult for John to carry him. Added with the difficulty of a body gone limp, he wasn’t going to make it all the way to a waiting helicopter, but still he wasn’t prepared to let go. 

Mycroft tried to stop him in his tracks.

“John, let me carry him. We need to pick up the pace. He needs antidote and probably oxygen, and whatever else required in this situation. You’re slowing us down!”

Mycroft was not yet fully wrestling his brother’s body out of John’s grip but as close to without actually doing it and John couldn’t help but protectively keep Sherlock’s unconscious form even closer to his chest.

“I’m not letting him go!” he said stubbornly.

“I understand your protective urge to be the one saving him, but I’m his brother.”

“And I’m his...” 

He wasn’t sure how to end that sentence but knew that his point had come across anyway. Mycroft reluctantly allowed him to carry on. 

Just as they were almost by the stairs, a loud crash was heard, shortly followed by heavy steps across the floor downstairs. 

“He must’ve have broken down the barrier,” John whispered just as Mycroft took advantage of his loss of concentration, grabbed a firm hold of his brother while he pushed John away from him. 

Securely locked in his arms he turned and began to walk back down the hall they had just left.

“Yes, it would seem like it,” he said, “and this is why __I need to be the one taking my brother to safety. We have no idea what we are facing if confronted with Dr Roylott again, but you, Dr Watson, are armed. You need to distract him while I’ll get Sherlock to the helicopter. Backup is on its way; all you need to do is to distract him so we can escape. Sherlock’s life rather depends on it, I fear.”

Reluctantly John could see Mycroft’s point, despite how much he hated the idea of being separated from Sherlock. It had to be done. 

It was just the realisation that this might possibly be the last time he saw Sherlock alive that made it so bloody difficult. 

But he understood that any more delays might actually become a matter of life and death in this situation, so with a last look at the lifeless form, now resting in Mycroft’s firm grip, he saw them disappear into one of the rooms while he went for one of the other ones across the hall, leaving his door slightly ajar so he could hear Dr Roylott or Magnussen approach and make sure to raise enough noise to gain their attention.

He positioned himself by the door without turning the light on, his back against the room and waited.

It didn’t take long before he heard heavy steps climb the stairs, and through the gap in the door he could soon see Dr Roylott’s broad form as a shadow on the landing. 

No Magnussen in sight though.

Dr Roylott had the movements of a bull ready to charge and was already heading for the door closest to his left when John made sure to catch his attention by pushing a small figurine out of porcelain to the floor, in a crash loud enough to cause impact despite several feet’s distance. 

He peeked out into the hall and could see Dr Roylott come charging in his direction now. As he had passed the room where Mycroft was hiding with Sherlock, John saw the door silently open and the figure of the older Holmes brother carrying the younger in his arms, sneak out behind the doctor’s back and head for the stairs. 

Had Dr Roylott turned his head he would have caught sight of them, but he was, to John’s huge relief, too single-minded at the moment to notice what was happening behind his back.

Content in the knowledge that they would at least make it out of the house without being confronted by the clearly dangerous doctor, John closed his own door silently but only backed away from it with a few steps, drew his weapon and then waited. 

Sure, there was always Magnussen to worry about, wherever he was lurking at the moment, but even if they stumbled upon him somewhere downstairs, he would be easier for Mycroft to handle. 

Besides, however much this idea chagrined John when thinking about it, considering Magnussen’s interest in Sherlock, he might even be willing to help getting Sherlock to safety.

The thought of Magnussen reminded him of the rollercoaster of feelings he had been through during the course of the evening. They seemed petty in the shadow of this new situation where he wasn’t sure Sherlock would even survive, but eventually, if he did, they would resurface again. And the question was what he was supposed to do about them. 

Finding Sherlock in the state he now was in had been a real schock that was still reverberating inside of John and he knew he couldn’t bare it if Sherlock actually died.   
That was one very strong aspect of this situation and if it actually came to that, he didn't know how to survive it. 

He loved Sherlock, had done so for a very long time and a night of selfishly reckless behaviour from the man wouldn’t change that fact. 

But John also knew that he wouldn’t be able to put up with the kind of bullshit he had been subjected to lately either. 

Something needed to change or what they had would simple turn ugly and full of resentment in the end. 

He had been jealous of Magnussen from the very beginning and that was partly his own weakness that he had to deal with. But Sherlock had put that weakness under a lot of further pressure by doing things so far out of line that the initial, probably very unfounded feeling, had turned into something very real and that was all Sherlock’s own doing. Jealous or not, there was only so much John was willing to tolerate. Being drugged and lied to, was not in that category. If what Magnussen had insinuated about Sherlock’s behaviour recently was true as well, he didn’t know how to deal with that.

Sherlock had most likely not given the nature of his actions so much as a second thought, how they would impact what he and John had in the long run. Sherlock always considered his methods justified if they helped him solve a case. But this, all of it, had been taken too far and John knew that if Sherlock didn’t realise it himself, John would force him to understand or the thing they had between them could no longer go on, however much that thought pained him.

It was absurd to even consider the kind of discussion he needed to have with Sherlock eventually, but on the other hand it was one of the few reasons that prevented him from going down the dark path of realisation that Sherlock might be dead by the end of the night and none of this would no longer matter.

To have a talk with Sherlock once back at Baker Street was the last vow he made before the door was thrown wide open and he was faced with the wild-looking form of Dr Roylott.

He had kept his gun pointed at the door determinedly with a steady hand while waiting for his arrival, but despite this very obvious, eye-catching gesture, the violent doctor seemed to ignore it completely because he just charged in and ran with full force into John.

The impact hitting his body made his hand react out of instinct, his finger pulled the trigger and a shot went off.

At first, he only heard the loud sound of the gunshot ringing in his ears, and it didn’t seem to have hit anything. Dr Roylott was still grabbing for him and John stumbled backwards, worried that he would end up helpless on the floor with the brute of a man on top of him. 

A physical fight between them would be short, he realised that. Dr Roylott was much bigger and stronger in every sense of the meaning and despite the gun, John would easily be overpowered if they ended up in a scuffle. 

Desperately he tried pulling the trigger despite no longer being able to see where he was aiming, and another shot went off. This time he heard the sound of glass breaking and knew he had missed his mark.

But just as he was bracing himself against the onslaught, the man in front of him suddenly stumbled and lost his balance, falling down on his knees in a staggering motion. 

Even in the dark John could see blood blooming out on the doctor’s trousers just above by the left knee. It was as if adrenalin had fuelled Roylott to charge but now the pain suddenly had caught up with him and as he stumbled to the floor, he let out a hiss of agony. 

John took advantage of the situation and rose, aimed his gun at the other leg and pulled the trigger. It went against every rule of ethics his line of profession could offer, but as he was so fond of reminding people of, he wasn’t only a doctor but also an army captain, and his only instinct right now was to prevent this man from gaining the upper hand. 

It was tempting to put a bullet in a more fatal location of his body, considering what he had done to Sherlock, but John managed to hold back those urges for now. The situation didn’t demand for him to kill. Not yet.   
And he wasn’t going to, as long as Dr Roylott remained where he was, howling in pain on the floor, his hands clasping around the new wound.

At the moment he looked immobilized, but one could never tell with a man like that, so John continued to aim his gun at him while he pulled his phone out and called Mycroft.

“Are you out?” he said the second Mycroft picked up. He could hear noises in the background so at least that must mean that they had managed to put some distance between themselves and the house. 

“Yes,” Mycroft’s tinny voice came out, a little distant. “I tracked down the driver of the car that met us at the gate earlier this evening. He was loitering about in the garage without a clue as to what his employer was up to on inside the house, or so he claimed. We'll need to look into that later. He very helpfully drove us to the helicopter. We just arrived and are boarding now. I assume you have your end of the situation under control seeing as you are able to phone me.”

“As good as. I’m still staring at my “end of the situation” as you call it, but he is immobilised at the moment and pose no danger for now.”

John could hear Mycroft talk to someone in the background but then returned.

“Backup is on its way. Just stay put and they’ll come and pick you up. I strongly advise you not to leave the house even if you consider the situation with Dr Roylott secure enough to leave him.”

There was something in his voice that sounded strange when he said this but as he didn’t elaborate any further John didn’t ask any questions about it. 

Besides, he was hardly going to leave Dr Roylott unattended here, however tempting it was to just rush to Sherlock’s side and be with him. This man seemed to be able to operate out of pure spite and anger if necessary and who knew how long two gunshot wounds would keep him down. 

“How is Sherlock? Has he regained consciousness?” he asked, his eyes still firmly trained on the man in front of him. 

“No, he is still not awake...” 

There was a miniscule pause before Mycroft continued, his voice more or less back to normal again. If John hadn't seen the utter shock and despair on his features earlier, he could have sworn Mycroft wasn't affected by any of this. But that little pause told him how shaken he still was. 

“They are working on him right now," Mycroft said. "I’m here in the back, giving them the room required to do their job. I’ll let you know as soon as anything new happens and when my team arrives, they’ll make sure you are taken safely home, and Dr Roylott will be dealt with. I saw some things in those rooms that will put him away for a very long time, if the attempted murder of my brother wouldn’t manage to do the trick. Added with the dealings he had with Magnussen and probably a lot more as well, I’m surprised if he’ll ever see the light of day.”

_Or you will make sure he never does_, John thought but didn’t say out loud.

“Speaking of Magnussen, where is he? Did he leave the house as well?”

“Oh, we caught a hasty glimpse of him on our way to the helicopter,” came the cryptic replied. “Don’t worry, he won’t pose a threat to your situation, just concentrate at what’s in front of you and know that help is coming.”

John could hear voices in the background and strained his ears to hear what they were saying, but just as he was about to open his mouth to ask Mycroft what was happening, the line went dead.

“Mycroft!” he called out but to no avail.

After one quick look at the writhing man on the floor, he went for the door and left the room, positioning himself with his back against the door as a barrier.

“Don’t even consider rising from that floor or I’ll shot a third hole through your body!” he yelled to the man inside and the quickly redialled Mycroft.

To his rising panic no one picked up and he tried again and again but Mycroft remained unreachable. 

A million thoughts of what this could mean whirled through his head and he felt panic surge through his body at the idea that Sherlock perhaps was dying this very moment while he was stuck here in this horror house. 

But he also realised that there was nothing he could do right now. 

Sherlock was surrounded by professionals who were doing everything in their power to safe his life, it was out of his hands now ad all he could do was to wait.

He kept redialling every other minute despite knowing that Mycroft wasn’t going to pick up. But somehow it kept his panic in check sufficiently enough to prevent him from just losing it. 

He almost forgot was his own actual job was and what he was supposed to be doing, Dr Roylott so far from his mind that he actually jumped from surprise when a bloodcurdling scream came from inside the room and he whipped around to throw the door open to see what the hell was going on in there.

And if the initial shock of the scream had not been enough, what he saw as his eyes adjusted to the darkness in the room, was even more shocking and horrific then anything he had expected to see.

Dr Roylott was still positioned on the floor, more or less where John had left him. 

There was blood still coming from both his wounds and it had caused stains on the floor as well as on his clothes and hands when they had pressed against the wounds to prevent the bleeding. He had even managed to pull his jacket around the first wound to put some pressure a on it. But it wasn’t the blood that made John freeze as he stared down at the scene in front of him.

It was the unexpected fact that a snake was slithered across Dr Roylott’s chest and had its fangs buried in the man’s throat that made John’s eyes widen in shock, just staring, unable to either move or react. 

Dr Roylott screamed and clawed at the snake but it seemed to have buried its teeth quite deep and wasn’t letting go easily. 

Finally as he managed to rip it off him and throw it away from his body, John’s paralyzed state eased up and he managed to tear his eyes away from the horrific scene in front of him and first follow the movements of the snake, to see where it landed, and then he noticed the remnants of a terrarium in the background that he had failed to notice earlier as his full focus had been on Dr Roylott. 

The fact that a cloth was lying next to it that must have covered it initially proved this point even further. Hidden under a cloth in the dark it must have made it very difficult to spot indeed. Mycroft, who earlier had claimed to have seen a snake in a terrarium, must have lifted the cloth to take a peek and surely recieved quite a shock at the sight. 

John quickly put two and two together and realised that the second stray bullet he had fired, the one which had resulted in the sound of glass shattering, must have been responsible of freeing the snake from its confinement and in a sweet but terrible case of justice, it had attacked its owner who was now full on panicking on the floor, his hands clawing at his throat while his eyes bulged out of their sockets in fear as well as pain. The fact that he had ripped the snake from its grip meant that he had managed to tear up quite the wound around the initial bite.

John realised that being bitten in the throat in comparison to the way Sherlock had been bitten in the hand was a huge difference and considering the semi-paralyzed state Sherlock had been in, there was a risk that Dr Roylott’s destiny was coming to an end much quicker if his airway stopped functioning properly. Also putting into the equation that blood was now flowing from three different locations on his body made it even more believable that Dr Roylott would not survive this ordeal.

Realising that this did not bother him one bit, despite the Hippocratic oath he had once upon a time sworn when becoming a doctor, John turned his back on the horrifying scene in the room and stepped out, quietly closing the door behind him. 

This time he didn’t bother with putting his back against it in an attempt to barricade the room, no one was going to be able to get out now anyway. He put his gun away as well. It had served its purpose for the evening.

He took a deep breath to fill his lungs and then released the air slowly, wiped the image of the dying man and the snake from his inner sight, as well as that of Sherlock's unconscious body carried away by his older brother, and pulled his phone up again and continued to call Mycroft every other minute until he heard noises from downstairs and realised that the backup team had finally arrived. 

With a shudder he slid down to the floor with his back against the wall, fingers still holding his phone tightly, and he closed his eyes while beginning to allow all the pent-up feelings that had been brewing inside of him ever since locating Sherlock now wash over him like a tidal wave, taking control of him like a physical force. 

Then he broke down and wept.


	16. Epilogue - A lesson learned

Sherlock stretched out like a cat, his elegant fingers dancing in the morning light coming from the window, curls tousled and contentment on his face.

He looked like himself again and it still was an overwhelmingly joyous sight to behold when seeing him move every muscle of his body, after the worry that he might never be able to do so again.

It had been a close call, too close for comfort, and John had done his best to push that thought away despite unable to fully ban it from memory. Sights like this, with Sherlock back to his old self again, still slightly sleepy but decidedly alive did help. It helped chase away the images of his pale face and lifeless body that John still had etched on his mind.

This was the day when Sherlock was finally allowed to leave the hospital bed he had been confined to for close to three weeks now and it was difficult to say who rejoiced in that fact more: Sherlock who had hated every minute of it, the staff who had fallen prey to his impatient temperament or John who had longed for Sherlock to come home again. 

Then there was Mycroft of course, who, once realising that his little brother would survive and soon was back to being his old trying self again, had despaired and left the whole situation to run its course without his interference, much to John’s surprise. 

Considering everything they had been through that fatal night at Stoke Moran and the deadly pale features presented to John when being brought to the hospital where Sherlock had been treated, with Mycroft silently sitting vigil by his bedside, he had suspected that the older Holmes bother would never again let Sherlock out of his sight. He himself was never going to do it, that much was certain. 

But Mycroft had eventually ended his vigil and left to deal with the aftermath of the situation, as soon as he was assured Sherlock was going to pull through, unharmed.

John had been given the short and probably very edited version of events afterwards, even if some details remained classified as Mycroft put it, despite Sherlock’s protestations from his bed. 

Unfortunately a few gruesome details managed to slip into Mycroft’s very factual and dry narrative and despite being there to witness some of them himself, John couldn’t help but feel a shudder of uneasiness run through his body when Mycroft told him about Dr Roylott’s rigid body being procured by agents and the snake still being at large somewhere in the now empty manor, despite a methodical search of the property. 

A few other animals had been found instead, among them a cheetah roaming the park outside, as well as a baboon and two ferocious canine creatures more reminiscent of wolfs than dogs, trapped in cages in the lower regions of the house. 

The remains of human bone as well as a few teeth had also been discovered in various areas around the premises and a theory that Dr Roy had fed his animals with his victims to rid himself of the evidence of their bodies was currently a popular opinion even if nothing was yet fully concluded. 

Who these people were and why he had killed them to begin with was still shrouded in mystery and Mycroft dryly noted that it was matted for the police to work with, rather than his own agents. And when he saw the spark of interest in his brother’s eyes, he added that it was not a matter for him to deal with either.

“Considering that you were likely to meet with the same fate, brother mine, I’m surprised that you would even consider pursuing this matter any further. Leave it to the professionals to deal with and thank your blessings that you managed to escape such a gruesome outcome.”

Sherlock had merely snorted at this, but not persisted by asking more questions for now. John was going to make sure that no more questions were going to be asked later either. 

The remains of Magnussen had been found not far from the gate, ironically just a few feet away from freedom. 

Torn branches and trampled grass in the area indicated that he had tried to outrun the cheetah and probably believed he would make it. 

One rather significant detail was that his employee, the pilot of the helicopter, must have seen or at least heard his boss’s screams of terror but stubbornly claimed he had no knowledge of events and had not attempted to aid Magnussen in his plight. 

To those who knew Magnussen, this detail wasn’t particularly surprising, and neither was the fact that he wasn’t especially mourned by anyone.

His death allowed for Mycroft’s men to perform a thorough search of the media mogul’s properties in the UK, both the flat in London as well as Appledore, but just like the issue with the snake, nothing substantial was ever found and the rumour of a vault consisting of his many secrets and blackmailing material continued to be just a rumour. 

They never found proof of its existence and despite at first feeling certain that it had to be more than a tale, Mycroft eventually had to concede that if the vault actually did exist, he wasn’t going to find it. And this time he wasn’t willing to risk Sherlock’s safety by asking him to locate it. He had had enough of Sherlock working his cases for a while.

The remains of the photos of Sherlock that Magnussen had carried in his pocket during the fatal night of his demise had been pocketed by Mycroft at first opportunity and he never breathed a word about them to John, but also decided to not let Sherlock know that he had them either, in the hope that his brother would squirm a little while wondering when and if they would show up. 

Mycroft knew a lesson was a difficult thing to teach his wayward brother, but at least Sherlock could sweat a little while wondering if they would suddenly resurface now that Magnussen was dead and a lot of dark secrets were coming to light in his wake. 

As far as John was concerned, he was outwardly calm and unusually patient for as long as Sherlock was still in hospital, he didn’t breathe so much as a word of recent events to anyone, but inside, he was silently brewing.

As Sherlock was getting better, John regained his ability to breathe more easily and reality made an unwelcome but not unexpected return as his thoughts shifted focus from the immediate crisis of Sherlock’s survival, to all the other unpleasant details that had also played a huge part in this case and were difficult to ignore even if he had tried to trample them down in the beginning.

So even if he made the effort to rejoice in the fact that Sherlock finally came back to Baker Street, healthy and well and looking just as irresistibly gorgeous as he always managed to do, however unknowingly or knowingly that ability seemed to be, John could still feel the sting of old wounds that simply refused to heal.

Because how could they when not properly tended to? 

None of the actions leading up to Sherlock leaving him drugged and abandoned on the sofa while chasing after Dr Roylott was ever addressed but it was now beginning to fester inside John’s head as time went by.

The first day and a half back at the flat passed without much issue. Not even the matter of sleeping arrangement presented itself as an obstacle.

Sherlock was still rather exhausted and it became a natural choice that he slept in his own bed, alone, no questions asked, as he simply crashed into sleep as the first evening came and there was nothing more to it. 

John slept on the couch in the living room to be close by if Sherlock needed him and he woke up well before his flatmate did, went up and made breakfast and proceeded with the day as he usually would. 

The matter of the sleeping arrangements was never broached. 

But as the second day was heading for late afternoon, things were beginning to tingle a little beneath the surface, in John’s case it was annoyance that was about to make an appearance, and in Sherlock there was obvious restlessness as he hated being confined to the role of a recovering patient.

Come dinnertime the situation finally erupted by Sherlock snapping that he wasn’t an invalid, that he didn’t like being tip-toed around as if in danger to break and this outburst resulted in John releasing his own brewing resentment by snapping back in full force.

“Don’t like the gentle approach, eh? A firmer hand might be more effective with you, is that what you’re saying?” he seethed as he got up from the dinner table, pent-up anger radiating from every pore. 

He slammed his napkin down on the half-eaten plate in front of him, causing the cutlery to rattle.

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply but then bit back whatever he had been about to say as John was clearly not willing to listen and instead had turned his back and marched out of the kitchen, into the living room.

After a few minutes of stubborn waiting for a John who didn't return, Sherlock got up from his chair as well and followed him, a thousand scathing retorts on the tip of his tongue. 

But as he entered the living room he had stopped in his tracks.

Not in his own chair but in Sherlock’s, John had seated himself, and in his lap a very familiar object rested, on open display, accompanied by a very firm gleam in the army doctor’s eyes.

Sherlock managed to gather himself sufficiently from the surprising sight and opened his mouth to say something, but John shook his head resolutely and for the second time this evening Sherlock went silent again, without voicing what had been on his mind.

Instead it was John who decided to break the silence first. 

“There is no need for you to talk, Sherlock. I think I have had enough of your words actually. I think it might be time for you to simply listen instead.”

Stunned by the firmness in John’s voice, Sherlock at first didn’t even move but simply remained where he was, a few feet away from John’s quietly seething presence.  
But then he silently turned his head towards the riding crop that John casually held in his grip and nodded, the gesture enough to indicate what he wanted to ask.

“Yes. This particular device makes an unpredictable return. But the outcome will be quite different this time, I assure you.” John said.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and after a second’s hesitation, he spoke, trying for a flippant tone. 

"Didn’t we already have this conversation not that long ago? With that exact riding crop.”

John nodded and allowed this brief breach of his order to pass, despite the itch to tell Sherlock to remain quiet.

“We did, but I think the point missed its mark that time,” he said instead.

Sherlock snorted at this.

“No, I believe I was quite thorough.”

“Yes, but _I_ wasn’t. And I have something to add to the subject as well. I believe there was a point being made regarding the distinction of fact and fantasy last time we spoke about this. I feel like I have spent a sufficient amount of time in your fantasy world, with you pulling the strings and making all kinds of terrible decisions, not only to the pain of others but to yourself as well....”

As Sherlock once again opened his mouth to protest John raised the riding crop while he tutted disapprovingly.

“No, no, no. What did I say about just listening? Don’t force me to use this prematurely just because of your insubordination. “

Reluctantly Sherlock clammed his mouth shut again, and John gave him a satisfied nod before he continued.

“I think we need to spend a little time talking about facts now, Sherlock. As a man of logic I always thought you would prefer that angle instead of wasting time in la la land, but on the other hand, considering what a drama queen you are, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that you prefer your own fabricated fantasy world to the dreary one the rest of us have to put up with.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed even further, becoming mere slits of darkness in his pale face, but he remained quiet and John continued unperturbed, as he slowly rose from the chair.

“When it comes to the world of crime solving you are my superior, I have no problem conceding that point. But when the methods you use cross certain boundaries and become more fantasy that cold hard logic, I no longer feel able to tolerate being the inferior party. Someone needs to rein in the risk-taking bastard when he is making a fool of himself. Or tries to make a fool of _me_.”¨

John weighed the riding crop in his hand before he allowed it to cut the air between them with a swishing sound. He liked the way the movement made Sherlock’s eyes follow his hand like a mesmerised cat.

“Pushed to the limit, I have began feeling the inclination to strike back and I think I might have reached the end of my patience when you decided to drug me just so you could run away on your own and indulge in whatever delusional ideas you nursed about coping better on your own. Such disobedience deserves a well-due lesson in good behaviour I think.”

Sherlock stubbornly returned John’s stare but there was a glimmer of uncertainty in his eyes now, despite his effort to try and look stoic, and John could sense that his words were beginning to have an inkling of impact finally. 

Good.

Because there was more to come.

He walked over to Sherlock who seemed perfectly nailed to the floor, watching John as he stepped up to him until the distance between them was well within personal boundaries.

John took the riding crop and caressed it across Sherlock’s high cheekbone, almost lovingly, but his voice remained stern and forceful.

“You made such a show and dance of proving to me, as well as to your brother, how you were the one in charge, the one who held the reins during this case. And yet, where did that stupid belief land you? Almost dead at the hands of a madman and with the risk of no one ever finding out.”

They way Sherlock’s hands clenched with the need to protest told John that he had hit a sore nerve, but the fact that Sherlock refrained from breaking John’s order to remain silent was also a telling sign that he was actually listening for once.

Encouraged by this positive sign, John continued.

“I think I have been too lenient with you for far too long. And not only me but your brother as well, along with everyone else you have wrapped around your fingers. No wonder you consider yourself invincible. But there are consequences to those who behave badly, Sherlock.”

He allowed those words to sink in before he finished what he wanted to say.

“Luckily I know all about how to punish those in dire need of a well-deserved lesson.”

Sherlock began to roll his eyes at this, clearly trying to break free from the hold John was trying to have of the situation, but he was immediately met with a swift stroke across his fingers with the riding crop and a surprised yelp escaped his lips as his eyes widened. 

John gave him a stern look and whatever cockiness Sherlock had tried for, quickly withered away as he patted his hurt fingers with his other hand and looked utterly shocked by the physical reprimand.

Unperturbed by this, John simply raised his eyebrows as he asked:

“Do you think it wise to test the patience of a man who holds a riding crop in his hand and isn’t afraid to use it quite thoroughly on someone in need of a good trashing?”

Sherlock stared at him for a second, his rebellious side clearly wishing to fight back and retaliate in the most snarky manner possible, just seize the moment by reaching for the riding crop and eviscerate the man in front of him with a scathing remark to regain control. 

But there was also another side of him now, the one that had perhaps spent the past couple of weeks considering a thing or two. The side of Sherlock who had had plenty of opportunity to think about actions and consequences, both while being tied up in a bed with a snake as his only companion, but also later, when safely bundled up under a hospital blanket with eons of time at his disposal to recount his recent decisions and the mistakes he had made.

And for the first time ever Sherlock allowed this new, more enlightened side to take precedence over everything else, over his pride, his need for being in charge, his own bloody stubbornness and meekly he bent his head in acknowledgement to what John was saying.

“Good boy,” John said smoothly and raised the riding crop so it came under the other man’s chin, tilting his face up from its subordinate position so their eyes could meet. “You seem to be a repentant student at last. But let’s see if there still isn’t a thing or two that needs to be addressed before we can put this whole sordid business behind us.”

He pointed towards Sherlock's bedroom and then used his most commandeering voice, the one he had usually only used during his army days.

“Go in there and get undressed. Then prepare yourself for a lengthy lesson in obedience by presenting your arse to me to do as I wish with. When we are done you will be feeling the effects of my lecture for days, Sherlock. _Days._”

Sherlock swallowed noticeably but did as he was told. 

Silently he disappeared into his bedroom, leaving the door invitingly ajar and John could hear the soft ruffle of fabric as Sherlock was getting undressed and most likely letting his garments fall to the floor.

A satisfied warmth spread across John’s chest as he caressed the length of the riding crop while he imagined the numerous ways he could use it to bring home the message he needed to come across if he would ever be able to move on. 

He had already caught a glimpse of repentance in Sherlock’s eyes back at the hospital, he knew Sherlock felt regret over many things even if he hadn’t said a word about it. And that was the core of the matter really. John knew a conversation was not the way to go about the issue. Not this time.

This was far better. 

This was straight forwards, and held all the pleasures of both doling out a well-deserved punishment to his very own insolent boy, as well as enjoying Sherlock's body once more, the way it was meant to be enjoyed, by him and only him and no other man, ever again. 

He reached for his phone that was lying on the small table next to Sherlock’s chair and typed in the familiar name of Mycroft Holmes in the contact list.

Then he started typing.

_“Whatever sounds your surveillance team might pick up in the following hour or two, do not be alarmed or feel the need to intervene by sending a rescue team to the flat. Your brother is going to receive a well-overdue lesson in behaviour, and I believe I have your blessing and permission if I mention that a riding crop, a bare bottom and some good old-fashioned spanking is on the agenda. I heard him mention not that long ago your wish to bring that particular method of punishment back in style. Consider this your early Christmas gift.”_

Then he pushed the send button with a content smile before he put the phone back on the table and turned towards the open door that was silently calling for his attention.

“I hope you are ready, because I gave you plenty of time to follow my order,” he called out. 

Then he grabbed the riding crop firmly in his hand, a jolt of excitement running through his eager body as he marched towards Sherlock’s bedroom and the hopefully repentant person who waited for him in there.

He was ready to put an end to things of the past right now and turn a new leaf.

When he reached the door and pushed it fully open to behold the sight in front of him, he was certain that Sherlock felt the same way as well.


End file.
